Part 39 – Scotched

“I myself would definitely scoff a couple of Scotch eggs if I had the chance, but I do recognise that it is a substantial meal.” (Michael Gove)

10 Pints Of Lager And A Scotch Egg Please

Haiga – Periscope

Monday stayed dark all day.  Phil struggled with rheumatism and soaked in a Radox bath. Posting blogs, the stupid blue highlights re-appeared in the journal.  On-line shopping included an Ocado order with a daytime delivery 3 days hence – hurray!   Looking for gifts on Amazon, I found a couple of items but no Cyber Monday deals.   I managed some yoga in the afternoon before the customary restless siesta.  With the downstairs curtains now closed against the long, cold nights, I didn’t notice the luminous moon and twinkling stars including the familiar Orion until bedtime.  There was also a strange streak of light in the sky.  Was it a UFO, a telegraph wire or a contrail?  Probably the latter, luminous in moonlight, but very weird seeing it in the inky black.  Muddled Covid dreams continued, devoid of handy tips.

Imperial College put the R rate at 0.8, with infections down by a third but still at high prevalence. Testing of university students started and campaigns by relatives led to the resumption of care home visits in pilot areas.  Visits were allowed everywhere only 2 days later.  As promised, the government gave information to MPs on the health, social and economic impact of tiers.  The CRG dismissed it as a re-hash.  Celebs Laurence Fox and Rita Ora were pictured flouting lockdown.  Ora should have been isolating after a trip to Egypt when she had her birthday bash in a posh restaurant.  Apparently, saying ‘sorry’ gets you out of being arrested if you are rich!  Just 3 weeks since the firebreak ended, Welsh pubs would be unable to sell alcohol and indoor entertainment venues shut From Friday.  Bradford hairdresser and loony conspiracy-theorist Sinead Quinn who’d erroneously cited the Magna Carta in refusing to cease trading and racked up £17,000 in fines, was forced to close at long last.

In what was touted as the last week of substantive talks on a Brexit deal, Rabid Raab said fishing was the ‘major bone of contention’.  Plans to subsidise farmers to promote wildlife after EU subsidies ended were revealed; i.e., less cows and sheep, more grouse moors for tories!  With the news that 10,000 turkeys suffering bird flu were culled at a farm in Northallerton (closely followed by Worcester swans), Phil said, “we should have got more spam.”  “Why? We never eat turkey.”  NHS staff in Scotland were to get a £500 bonus.  Sturgeon urged Boris not to scotch the idea with tax and Kate Forbes, Scottish Finance Secretary, promised the pay freeze for public sector workers wouldn’t be implemented north of the border.

Tuesday started frosty and sunny after the clear night.  Cleaning the kitchen, I found tea towels stored under the sink were damp and mildewy.   Phil discovered a small leak from the U-bend and easily fixed it but I still had to wash them all.  The amazon delivery arrived only a day after ordering.  Pretty sure I’d not elected for the free 30-day Prime trial, I pitied the poor workers rushing round to get parcels out so quickly.   After faffing with the packaging and secreting the contents, I went to town.  Very quiet compared to weekends, it didn’t stop the convenience store staff whingeing about ‘bloody tourists’.

Covid death rates slowed but figures showed a huge mismatch between the official government tally of 58,448 and 74,529 actual.  55 Tories voted against tiers but as opposition parties abstained, it still passed.

Useless George created much mirth saying a Scotch egg counted as a ‘substantial meal’ in a pub and confirmed the deliberate inconsistency and confusion of government messaging: “(not) every rule… and.. requirement… is perfectly consistent or… (will) even be considered fair… indeed they won’t be.”  A Number 10 spokesman insisted most people knew the difference between a bar snack and a substantial meal.  Glove-Puppet said it was a starter then changed his mind to say it was a main course.  He also blamed the EU for moving the goalposts on the level playing field in the Brexit talks.

Mick Astley hadn’t come to the rescue of Arcadia.  It slid into administration, risking 13,000 jobs at Topshop, Burtons and Dorothy Perkins.  This led to Debenhams going into liquidation, jeopardising another 12,000 jobs.  So what was the point of longer opening hours with hardly any high street shops left?  Boris promised a paltry £1k each to ‘wet’ pubs as a sop to his revolting backbenchers.  A leaked ‘secret dossier’ or ‘Whitehall dashboard’ showed which sectors were most imperilled.  Playing it down, Number 10 claimed it contained nothing not already in the public domain.

Wild Wednesday

Thundersnow

I texted my walking friend on Wednesday.  It turned out she had a few ‘blissful’ days off and arranged to come round for a safe outdoor cuppa. She knocked on the door, and retreated to the far bench while I stayed near the door for a distanced chat.  With inevitable dithering, I passed her the books and made her a coffee.  She updated me on the happenings at work until I suggested a change of topic.  We laughed at the scotch egg malarky and discussed an array of misinformation surrounding vaccines.  Promising to stay in touch, she went off to feed the ducks.  I washed the coffee paraphernalia thoroughly, and had a lie down.  Horrendous metal grinding noises started up just as my head hit the pillow.  Grr!

Amidst much fanfare, The MHRA*approved the Pfizer vaccine, meaning the UK was the first country to get it  With 800,000 doses already on the way, was it too soon?  Anthony Fauci seemed to suggest so but later back-tracked, insisting he had no gripes with the UK system.  In true schoolyard fashion, ministers lined up to trumpet the move.  Alook Sharma incredibly hailed it a victory for the country.  The Europeans pointed out it was developed by a Turkish-German couple and an American company.  The Cock claimed it was possible because of Brexit, even though the UK regulator followed exactly the same rules as the EU.  Gavin Salesman said the UK was first because it was the best country – what a tit!  Priorities looked unclear due to logistics.  At PMQs, Kier raised the issue of getting it to care homes, with the usual dithering responses from Boris.  On the dawn of the new tier system, dubbed ‘Wild Wednesday’, Londoners were seen watching the sunrise, queuing outside Primark and loaded with JD sports bags.  Debenhams’ website crashed due to a fire sale.  Look North reported on a ‘border’ between North and West.  The Police & Fire Commissioner admitted it wasn’t legally enforceable but contrarily said police could issue fines – what the hell for?  Pubs in tier 2 areas came up with novel ways of counting as eateries such as partnering with chip shops.

The Thursday Ocado delivery contained some items with damaged packaging meaning I had to waste time claiming a refund.  I then worked on the journal.  A sudden noise made me jump.  It was the window cleaner; an unusual day for it. When he knocked on the door for the money, he said he was trying to get ahead before Christmas. I likewise decided to get ahead and went to the co-op for a few things still needed for the weekend.  Phil had gone to work in Leeds, with a small list of goodies we’d struggled to find elsewhere.  Returning early evening, I asked if he got the stuff on the list.  He said yes then reeled off a load of items not on the list.  It turned out he’d bought a pile of snacks and biscuits, only 1 of which was what I’d asked for!

On the day that the official death toll reached 60,000, Prof Van-Damm assured us that Santa would be top of the list for a vaccine.  Later, arch tory Rees-Moggy showed an uncharacteristically twee side saying Santa wouldn’t need it as he had his own special travel corridor to deliver presents and his elves counted as key workers.  It was unclear if they had to wear masks.

As hopes of a Brexit deal fast receded, Barnier stayed in London to continue talks. The UK government persisted in blaming the EU for ‘bringing new elements to the table at the 11^th hour’.  Brussels said that was mere theatrics.  France threatened to veto a ‘bad deal’ reportedly on regulatory issues but we all knew they just wanted all the fish.  The Internal Markets Bill was due back in the commons Monday, after it was chucked out by the House of Lords.  Could that finally scotch any deal being agreed by the 27 member states?  On Brexitcast, Blair repeatedly said the Brexit argument was over and replied ‘I don’t know’ to questions on what the future held.

In the cold light of Friday morning, I woke with a scratchy throat, took Echinacea and exercised regardless.  A very light dusting of snow was sprinkled on the nearby hills, with more of varying heaviness falling throughout the day.  But even the big flakes didn’t stick, unlike on higher hills, signified by freezing water emanating from the bath taps. Scotland experienced rare ‘thundersnow’.  Christmas shopping scotched by the awful weather, I also doubted the flea market would be on; if allowed at all in tier 3.  Instead, I caught up on various computer tasks.  The sluggish laptop locked up and took ages to restart.  Thank you Microsoft!

Sage now put the R rate at 0.8-1.  Following earlier scientific scepticism of the roll-out of mass community testing using lateral flow tests, Angela Raffle of Bristol University said they had a sensitivity rate of only 58%.  They failed to detect 30% of highly infectious people in Liverpool and rates didn’t fall any faster there than anywhere else: “so the claims that the Prime Minister and Secretary of State for Health are making that there has been a three quarter’s drop in Liverpool because of mass testing are completely false.”  Amidst concerns, some care homes stopped using the rapid tests for newly reintroduced visits.

The Coffee-Cup Circuit

Beef Tripe

Saturday morning, Phil woke late having slept right through the night.  “Lucky you!”  I left him to make bread and set off for Christmas shopping in town.  It was madly busy!  The old narrow road was no longer traffic-free and cluttered with parked cars.  People milled about imbibing take-away coffee and pizza.  Market stalls were fully occupied, mainly with Christmas crap.  Spotting an aromatherapy stall, I had quite a wait to buy reasonably priced lavender oil as the lovely woman chatted to a punter selfishly taking up all the space with his bike.  Spotting an item on my Christmas list, I asked the leather stall holder if he would be there on Sunday.  “Who knows? The police came and tried to shut us down last week.”  “Crazy!”  the only explanation I could come up with was that Sunday hosted the farmer’s market and thus meant to sell food.  But that didn’t explain why the Saturday crap (sorry, craft) market was allowed.

Heading to charity shops, I wondered why I’d come out at the weekend.  At the first, a pair of women barged past as I donned my mask, then hovered near the sanitising station gassing.  When I finally entered, another group came in right behind me, heedless of distancing.  I came across a worker at the back of the shop.  “You should have someone on the door.” I told her.  “You can tell people to move back for you,” she replied.  “They don’t take any notice. It needs to be someone from the shop.”  Upstairs, I was asked to wait in the corridor as the top room was full.  Well, I thought, if you stopped people at the front door it wouldn’t be, would it!  A nightmare trying to get round, I gave up.  Mysterious crates of tinned ‘beef tripe’ stood outside the second shop.  Were they for dogs, OAPs, or post-Brexit fare?  On viewing my phone pics later, Phil said “I’d give it a go!”  Less busy inside, a mum and son crawled round blocking the one-way aisles.  I made a quick exit and went in search of elusive delicacies instead before exhaustedly trudging home.  Pleasant hitherto, the sky turned ominously pink and a sudden icy rain shower descended, to promptly stop again.

It was Phil’s turn to brave the town centre madness on Sunday, returning with an orange squash (aka pumpkin) and reporting the demand for coffee so high that extra vans had turned up.  “It’s all those coffee-cuppers, scotched in attempts to go to meetings and wander round offices with mug constantly in hand.”  “Ah! The displaced coffee-cup circuit!”

Meanwhile, I spent the day writing a haiga and printing Christmas cards.  The printer kept telling me to load paper even with loads in the tray.  I eventually solved the issue by turning it off and on again.  Phil had a suspected cold all weekend.  As he absent-mindedly gave me a goodnight kiss, I felt a sudden sensation in my nose.  That couldn’t be right.  What about the incubation period?  I dismissed the nonsense notion but woke the next day totally bunged up.  It soon transmogrified into the usual chronic sinusitis.

Shopping madness spread nationwide. Crowds besieged Harrods and a friend went to Manchester, encountering packed streets and a mindless demo in Piccadilly.  The Trump inexplicably made the announcement on twitter that his madcap lawyer mate and ex-mayor of New York,RudolphGiuliani had Covid.  “He’s an idiot, he’s a senile idiot, he’s an idiot in New York!”

*Note – Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency (MHRA)

Reference:

1. My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 9 – Lexicography

Flouters and Charlatans

Art in the Making

Tuesday morning, we both felt slightly unwell.  The persistent scratchy throat and heavy feeling in my gut signalled heightened anxiety, with no apparent specific cause.  I forced myself to get up.  The university researcher’s brief looked interesting.  I indicated consent to contribute and amended documents to include my name and copyright.  This took a while but were now formatted for potential future uses.  , I managed some more work on the journal but my head became heavy. I went for a lie down.  Inevitably, noisy socialising on the street below prevented proper rest.  As the evening trees were touched by soft light, my annoyance and depression at still feeling ill and fatigued grew. I desperately needed to get out for fresh air, vitamins, and exercise – my legs were seizing up!

Fatal cases of Covid-19 hit 32k in the UK, overtaking Italy to become the second highest globally.  Matt Cock still wittered about different counting methods making the data incomparable.  He would have been wise to shut his gob; many deaths in care homes had not been recorded as Coronavirus-related, so the rate was probably even higher.  Amid much vaunting, the Contact Tracing app, NHSX,, was piloted on the Isle of Wight.  Amnesty International warned it opened ‘the door to pervasive state surveillance’.  The  local MP, Silly Bob, dismissed concerns associated with the use of personal data and how the app would work in practice, patronisingly saying “it’s simples!”

Wednesday brought some improvements as the throat discomfiture changed from a scratch to a tight feeling.  Morning news revealed a couple of high-profile lockdown flouters.  A SAGE boffin, involved in setting the rules, resigned as his girlfriend was caught visiting his home.  Nasty Nigel was filmed pointing at ‘illegal immigrants’ sailing on dinghies into Dover. With characteristic bare-faced cheek, he claimed to be ‘an essential journalist’ when in fact, he is nought but a charlatan!  Matt Cock told MP DR Allin-Khan to ‘change her tone’ as she quizzed him on the lack of testing leading to lost lives.  So, the opposition was not allowed to ask factual questions without being patronised?  Yet more evidence, if any were needed, of the sheer conceitedness of the self-righteous right-wing!

The morning flew by as I worked on the journal, placed an Ocado order and watched PMQ’s.  Bumbling Boris arrogantly arrived late and declared a target of 200,000 tests a day by the end of May even though the current 100,00 target was only met for one day last week.

Supermoon Rising

At the start of the week, Phil cast about for an excuse to go out.  With no shop requirements, he suggested going to look for goslings, snapped by a fellow photographer on the marina.  Hoping they’d still be there we set off in the late afternoon sun.  Kids’ chalk drawings on the pavement suggested a home-school project in progress.

We waited for a neighbour coming up the steps.  “It’s so strange walking round (toy town*) now, she remarked, “but I quite like it.  Apart from missing the charity shops. I’ve got no summer clothes.” I sympathised as I also missed them, but little else (see below).

As she reached the top step, a slipper-wearing man with a mini dog rudely overtook us.  The usual hippies milled about on the main road.  At the marina, we spotted geese, pigeons, a wagtail, a pile of pallets and a small family sat on the cobbles, but no goslings.  In the memorial gardens, displaced pub-goers socialised on benches while in the park, children weaved about on bikes.  The ‘wild flower’ patch was a riot of dandelions.  On the less-trod playing field, they sprouted alongside daisies.  Exiting onto the towpath, signs redolent of Royston Vasey proclaimed ‘local use only’.  Fish swam beneath bright ripples in the canal, but still no sign of goslings.

At twilight we took simple pleasure in the last full supermoon of the year rising into a pink sky.

Vagaries of Easement

IBM Summit Supercomputer

Press speculation abounded on the ‘Exit Roadmap’ due Thursday.  ‘Easement’ added to the lexicography of lockdown.  Predicted to include permitting more outdoor activity in England, Sturgeon’s ’blueprint’ for Scotland included the idea of a social ‘bubble’ allowing mixing within wider circles.  The ping-pong on masks continued with Keir Hardy saying they were inevitable in confined spaces and public transport.  Medical ‘experts’ remained vague, with arguments on whether the risk from aerosol transmission of the virus was a real risk, compared to droplets from the infected.  A woman from IBM (whose Summit supercomputer was being used for project to fight the virus) mused on different future models of working; that would be ‘the new normal’ then!  Interestingly, the Newsnight presenter echoed my observation that people had finally realised we didn’t need all that consumption or to fly about willy-nilly.

My now habitual early shopping expedition entailed a short wait at the co-op, with 1 person ahead of me.  Inside, it was moderately busy but relatively stress-free.  Possibly due to less dawdlers, or to a new system for coding my list by section making it easier to find things on each aisle.  Not getting everything I needed, I scored reduced scampi.   Phil said we should have it with chips and tinnies outside, to replicate a pub dinner.  Of course we didn’t – the scampi wasn’t as good as the pub anyway.

I expected coffee to be waiting for me on my return, but Phil had been ‘rescuing’ a beetle from the bathroom.  I’d noticed it indoors the night before and assumed it had been carried on our jeans from the park.  However, it returned to the house over the weekend, so maybe it belonged here.  As I tried to deal with the groceries in the kitchen, he started washing up . I became angry and shouted “ get out of my way!”  He stomped upstairs, retorting: “There’s no point being in here is there?  And you’ve been less than half an hour!”  I checked myself, not realising the errands had been so quick, and apologised.

Hanging washing out, I met the woman and young girl staying next door for the first time.  I introduced myself in a neighbourly way, prompting for the courtesy to be reciprocated.  (The girl’s unusual name gave me an idea for ‘Felling Oakes’).  The woman said they’d moved from ‘up tops’ to be nearer town during lockdown but added “It looks like we’re coming out of it now.”  “Err, no we’re not!” I replied.

I finally got rid of the pesky last bit of mould on the bathroom window.  During my rest, I enjoyed the scent of clean sheets that had dried outside, but didn’t really relax.  Although quiet outside for a change, my mind churned with mundane crap.  If it wasn’t one thing it was the other!  In an effort to deal with at least 1 small issue and replenish dwindling bathing supplies, I placed a Boots order online, spending enough to qualify for free home delivery – a good job with collect in store no longer an option.

It turned out the PPE ordered by the government from Turkey was rubbish, after waiting days for an RAF flight to fetch it!  Evening figures showed coronavirus infections up again In England (specifically in care homes) and still rising in Scotland.  Data suggested morbidity was 4 times higher among ethnic minorities.  Although full analysis hadn’t taken place, socio-economic and geographical factors were likely the main reasons.  No doubt compounded by the fact that a disproportionately high number worked in low-paid and public sector jobs.  Regardless of this backdrop, cabinet meeting discussions continued to suggest ‘easement’ with people allowed to go on longer walks and have picnics from next week.  With the imminent bank holiday, I predicted pre-emptive flouting.  Phil said everyone had enough of lockdown and they’d just start to ignore it. He frequently whinged about the restrictions but I quite liked some aspects of it.

Watching Jeremy Vine the next day, he asked ‘was it wrong to say you’re enjoying lockdown?’  I tweeted that while bragging or gloating about the joys of lockdown smacked of smugness, I didn’t mind it.  Suffering from chronic fatigue and other health issues for several years, my life hadn’t changed much and I’d developed lots of coping strategies.  A supportive partner who made me laugh several times a day helped massively.  And for once, I was actually better off than a lot of working people – unlike some people’s income, my ESA would continue (although I had to fight for over a year to have it re-instated just before Christmas).  The situation also took a lot of pressure off to go to appointments for example (the prospect of another ATOS assessment seemed very remote).  While missing the charity shops, I hated grocery shopping with the stupid random shortages and mindless idiots wandering about.  It really heightened my stress and anxiety levels.  What I really missed was seeing friends and not being able to plan trips out.

On Question Time, Useless George couldn’t answer questions on the practicalities of contact-tracing.  Challenged on why the government loved the graphs when they showed the UK doing well compared to other countries but now showed the opposite, he parroted claims that the data was unreliable and comparisons couldn’t be made – more flannel and deflection.  A few days later, they stopped showing the graphs altogether!

VE Day In The Bubble

Pathetic Bunting

Rising on Friday morning, I felt woozy and the scratchy throat returned, albeit mild.  Forgetting it was VE day until I put the telly on, I wondered why the footage of celebrations always showed London.  What happened elsewhere?

Computer work took up most of the morning; far from super.  Unable get a re-worked ‘Corvus Bingo’  to display properly, I became very annoyed, gave up and hung washing on the line instead.  The pole was stuck and as I tried to loosen it, the end broke off raising my anger.  Phil set about fixing it in spite of my protests.  I wanted to leave it in favour of lunch and a walk in the sun.  I stomped off to clean up and make butties, by which time he’d fixed the pole; so no need to get worked up (again!)  Predictably late afternoon by the time we ventured out, we didn’t get far.

Hippies in Anti-Lockdown Demo

Jolly laughter, bursts of terrible music and milling about implied people on the street below were actually having a party – still ongoing into the evening.  Evidence of beer-swigging emerged a few days later as the crashing sound of empty bottles being tipped into the recycling collection cart lasted several minutes.

 

On our street, neighbours of the adjacent terrace socialised in their own self-created ‘bubble’.  Mr. Fast n Furious raced up and parked in the middle of the thoroughfare for no apparent reason, stood there a few minutes with engine idling, then reversed out with equal speed.  We gave all a wide berth and walked through clouds of floating dandelion seeds on the long way into town, giggling at pathetic bunting in ‘Brexit Close’. A sole person occupied a bench in the square.  I discovered a couple of days later that we’d avoided an anti-lockdown demo. Some Googling unearthed a photo of 8 hippies, including the stupid arty German couple (the man had proudly used it as his updated profile pic).  I recalled the encounter a few weeks ago and was not surprised they were part of the small band of ‘covidiots’!  Supportive comments on social media included sociopaths asserting that only old people, smokers, the obese and diabetics died of Covid-19.  So it was alright to let whole sections of the population perish then was it?  And they called us the Nazis!   Incensed local dignitaries railed back, branding them selfish and arrogant.

I’d always said toy town was like a bubble, with residents having no clue about the real world outside the valley (confirmed by the supreme shock and disbelief displayed at the result of the 2016 Brexit referendum). Thus the several pockets of flouters, conspiracy-theorists and deniers hadn’t surprised me.

Getting a few errands, we popped in the fancy wine shop to smirk at the exorbitant prices and dance to Sister Sledge.  After purchasing the fabled goat meat from the very local butchers, we aimlessly wandered towards the people’s pizza van.  The smoky wood smell was a big draw but competed with the stink of draw towards the aqueduct.  We crossed to the other side of the lock to avoid the idiotic bank holiday smokers and drinkers, enjoying a quiet patch of sunlight.  Along the towpath, the angry white geese noisily defended their territory against half-breed ducks.  One, a mix of mallard and runner duck, swam in an ungainly fashion, struggling to keep its long neck up .  At the next exit point, we spotted another wagtail in the river.  Nearby, we hailed a couple of friends in their garden, chatting safely from the other side of the wall.  He had been furloughed and she’d sensibly given up work as a self-employed painter for the duration, enjoying the rest. That made at least two other people liking the slower pace of life!

In a change from most days, VE Day celebrations topped the evening news, with footage shot outside London for once, including a Polish war hero living in the next village – who knew!  Latest reports on the expected relaxing of lockdown included some small changes likely for Wales while Sturgeon insisted her hand would not be forced, regardless of what happened in other UK nations.  The government warned against expecting much change in England. Too late!  The right-wing press had already reported the unconfirmed broadcasts in a warped way (amid rumours of deliberate leakage).  And look what happened in toy town!  I said it was asking for trouble announcing the announcement.

Idiocracy

Haiga – Know Your Limits i

Busy indoors Saturday, I didn’t benefit from the persistent sunshine. Phil still suffered from back pain and continued with his gig-economy job.  He made $300 for the week for the first time since he started it ‘for Christmas’ – not bad going seeing as he only got $1 per question.

The brown soda bread I made looked a little over-baked but tasted good with a cakey texture.  As it contained a touch of honey, I thought I’d add sunflower seeds next time; if I could find more wholemeal flour, not seen for the past 6 weeks.   Phil cut and dyed my hair.  Long overdue, it had turned ‘nothing colour’ (aka grey) and the fringe fell over my eyes.  I felt a stone lighter afterwards. Finally managing to format ‘corvus bingo’, I then had trouble posting it on Facebook.  Annoyed again, l almost threw the laptop across the room!

Phil finally got round to his DIY task in the bathroom.  The full tube of sealant we had struggled to find last weekend, was totally gunked up.  Having already gouged out the old stuff, it left a hole behind the washbasin.  Why are these things never straight-forward?

As Sunday turned cold, and we awaited a new tube of sealant to arrive, I decided to start the painting.  I found a veritable spider’s nest behind the far bathroom cupboard, testament to how rarely I bothered to move it.  I also discovered more mould between the bath and sink.  I applied the treatment then spent ages searching for the right paint, even though I had dug it out a week ago and left it in an obvious place –  it had fallen into a carrier bag.  After all the prep, it took 10 minutes to paint the offending wall.  Meanwhile, Phil made us a small lunch of ‘hors d’oeuvres’ (i.e., Ritz crackers topped with humus, sliced olives and cheese triangles – very 1970’s!)

Previews of Bumbling Boris’ statement being vague, I watched it live.  He blathered and blustered for the most part, insisting the strategy (sic) had “prevented catastrophe” of 10m deaths (what happened to 20k being a ‘good outcome?).  The hitherto clear message to ‘stay home’ was replaced by the vague ‘stay alert’ (As one doctor said, that could mean not being asleep!)  In fact, the whole slogan had been re-worded to: ‘Stay alert; Control the virus; Save lives.  Inevitable memes took the piss.  He wittered on about a ’shape of a plan’ and promised more details on the “way ahead” in parliament the next day, with questions from the public during the briefing (there were already tons!)  “We could do lots of things”, he continued, “but cannot risk going back to square one” before repeating the 5 key tests and banging on about a Covid Alert System.  He promised to reverse the epidemic in care homes and the NHS with a ‘world beating’ test and trace system and to detect flare-ups in local areas.  At last, he got to the crux of the matter saying it was “not the time to lift lockdown (but) to modify measures”, to be done initially in 3 steps.

‘From tomorrow… go to work if you cannot work from home’.  In fact it was ‘actively encouraged’ while  being discouraged from using public transport.  As they were still ‘working on’ guidance for employers, people were expected to travel to work in potentially unsafe conditions, to potentially unsafe workplaces.  It smacked of a cynical ploy to stop ‘dependency’ on furlough and benefits; forcing people back to work after telling them not to for the past 6 weeks!

From Wednesday, unlimited time outdoors was allowed, including golf, fishing and skateboarding and driving to places, as long as you came back on the same day and obeyed social distancing rules, with increased fines for flouters.

From 1^st June, there would be a phased re-opening of shops and schools; starting with primary years 1 and 6.  They were ‘setting out’ guidance for the education sector.  How on earth did he expect 5-year olds to social distance?  Phil remarked he’d run away from all his sprogs so far, thus having no idea how kids behaved!

Sometime in July, some hospitality would re-open.  All steps were ‘ conditional on following advice and rules’ and would be monitored.  Quarantine would also ‘soon’ be imposed on those flying into the UK (making me re-ask why this had not already been done.  Predictably, airlines went up in arms).

More argument ensued over the coming days as it was branded ‘vague, confusing and disappointing’. Keir Hardy said it raised ‘more questions than answers’ Apparently, Boris didn’t tell cabinet, let alone parliament, what he was going to say.  Another;  product of Scumbag Cumberbatch or just total disregard for democracy?

Monday morning, noise in the early hours woke me several  times.  Honking geese started up about 4.00 a.m.  The cacophony of their ‘dawn chorus’ jarred, unlike that of the tweety birds.  Then various works started up.  Some people did not waste time when the rules changed!  Between these interruptions, I had vivid dreams involving going to a weird holiday place.  While observing social distancing, much running amok took place.  I spent the morning posting blogs.  By coincidence, the red windows reflected in the canal on the photo I used, were painted by the friend I’d chatted to on Fridayⁱ.

In the news, Matt Cock’s neck was on the line, following a furious row with number 10. He was blamed for failures in the system including shortages of PPE, strengthening speculation that he would be the fall guy.

Later in parliament,  the government was challenged on claims that the new guidance was ‘clear’ and ‘good old-fashioned British common sense’.  The promised 50 page document had huge gaps.

Keir made a statement insisting we still needed clarity, re-assurance and detail on unanswered questions: Do people go to go to work or school without a guarantee of safety?  Was there a clear direction for the sketchy ‘roadmap’? Would public transport be safe? When could we see our loved ones? How were employees meant to balance childcare with working? How would the police enforce the rules? (they are after all, guidance, not laws!)   He also drew attention to the daft situation of different rules in different nations of the UK and said he was ‘determined to build better society’ when all this was over; we couldn’t go back to ‘business as usual’ with NHS staff not being valued and care homes treated as second class.  ‘Getting through’ would be due to the courage of key workers, and the resilience and human spirit of ordinary people, not the blithering idiots in power.

Bumbling Boris led the briefing with questions from the public, but I’d had enough by then.  Subsequent commentaries expounded the view the vagueness was a cynical ploy to shift blame from the government to the voters.  A friend posted a link on Facebook to a petition to sue the government on how they’d handled the pandemic.  I added my signature, fully aware that it was a waste of time – after all, they are the ones with the power and vast teams of lawyers behind them, enabling them to wheedle their way through the loopholes!

*A note on ‘toy town’ – an old private joke

References:

i. My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 8 – Watch The Skies

Braggadocio

Hubble’s Ultra Deep Field

Cool cloud coverage signalled the end of warm sunny weather, for the time being.  Rain finally arrived later in the week, after the driest April on record.  Tuesday, I felt as though I hadn’t slept at all and resigned myself to more bedrest.  At least I wouldn’t be so pissed off about missing the sun and those boisterous kids would shut up.  Alas, the racket was replaced by roadworks on the small road directly opposite us, so still no hope of peaceful rest.  Phil also felt ropey but stoically carried on as normal.

According to official figures, 100 NHS staff had died from Covid-19.  A minutes’ silence was held at 11.00 a.m.  Matt Cock said families of the victims could claim £60k but that didn’t mean they couldn’t also sue the government.  What was he playing at?  In his return to Whitehouse briefings, The Trump denied responsibility for people drinking bleach and in a classic deflection technique, threatened to sue China for dead Americans.

The Trump and The Boris could learn a thing or two from an article I read, asserting that charismatic leadership inevitably ended in disappointment (see for example, Boris’ gung ho approach before being struck down, going round shaking hands and bragging ‘we’ll beat it’).  The bods went onto say society needed post-heroic leadership, to solve ‘wicked’ problem with no right or wrong answers.  Leaders had to ask the right questions, not necessarily have the answers, collaborate, talk and listen to others, and not blame or criticise.  This way, they created optionality and space for trial and error.  I reflected this was quite like my leadership style when I managed teams.  Fat lot of good it did me; being bullied, accused of incompetence and thrown on the scrap heap!

After a mediocre night, I  tried to sleep in later Wednesday morning, but couldn’t.  Although sinusitis symptoms had eased off, I was still exhausted.  I stayed in bed, writing on the laptop and watching telly.

Lots of toadying ensued over the latest Boris sprog.  Paternity leave came in handy, giving him an excuse to skip PMQs again.  Rabid Raab gave out the usual clichés and platitudes about people dying on the front line.  Keir Hardy raked over the 27k deaths so far, which now included care home figures; the worst mortality rate in Europe.  He quoted some medico who’d said under 20k would be ‘a success’, countering that it was actually ‘horrific’.  A flustered Raab wittered about a mismatch in counting and evidence from SAGE.  So boring I lost track.  Hot on the heels of the debacle of expecting ill essential workers to drive 70 miles to testing centres, home testing kits went on offer via the website – to be gone in an hour!

A late TV repeat celebrated Hubble’s 30^th anniversary. Among the mesmerising images of black holes and supernovas, the ‘Ultra Deep Field’ went back to start of creation, confirming that once upon a time there was no universe.  But what was in the nothing?  Does not compute!   Mind officially blown!

Phil set off to the shop with a small list, bread for lunch the priority.  He came back and went straight out again, calling “I forgot bread!” as he did so.  Hungry and irritated, I washed cups in the bathroom sink and waited impatiently for him to return.  He claimed he’d forgotten the loaf as the co-op was a nightmare again.  My head felt too heavy to continue writing.  Instead, I put winter jumpers and woolly hats away in the top cupboard – even though summer had temporarily deserted us, I reckoned it was safe.

Flying High

Flypast for Captain Tom

Thursday morning, I felt slightly better but still weak and feeble.  By the time I’d had a bath, the morning was over.

Captain Tom’s 100^th birthday celebrations included being made an honorary colonel, a special postmark, a telegram from the queen and an RAF flypast,  (organised by BBC breakfast; Shats had bragged about this, as if to take the credit), a cake with a spitfire on top, thousands of cards (so many it looked like an art installation in the school hall) and an Olympic torch.  By the evening, he’d raised £31.8m for the NHS.  The fundraising page closed at midnight.  With little to buy apart from food and drink, my ESA stretched a bit further meaning I could afford to make a small donation.

During afternoon quiet time, I could hear traffic on the main road below splashing through the rain.  The sound seemed odd now.  Although lulled into deeper relaxation than normal, sleep still eluded me.

Bumbling Boris chaired the pointless briefing,  A simpleton PowerPoint slide show demonstrated the ‘R’ rate at less than 1.  Far from being ‘upbeat’ as the hype had suggested,  I yawned into my coffee.  Boris did not dwell on the death rate which, at officially the third highest in the world, was definitely nothing to boast about.  He insisted infections were ‘past peak’, and promised an exit plan next week.

Elsewhere, trial use of the drug Remdesiver (used for Ebola) sped up recovery from CV-19 by a third, compared to a placebo.  Not for the first time, the trial raised concerns.  As with the vaccine trials, and the use of mice, it struck me as a slightly evil experiment.  If it worked, why not give the drug to everyone?

The latest idiotic idea from ‘a scientist’ suggested pubs only allowed 2 drinks per customer when they re-opened.  Our imaginations ran wild inventing ways round that one; pub crawls, disguises such as different masks. silly hats and outrageous accents to name but a few.

The weekly editions of Question Time and Newscast (aka ‘plague cast’) contained no cutting insights.  I reflected the latter was nowhere near as amusing as Brexit-cast.  I did miss those halcyon days!

Beltane

Beltane Hippies

Friday morning, I declared the sinusitis over, at least for now, and forced myself to get to the co-op early for the weekend essentials (pizza and wine).  I laughed as a man tampered with his facemask “you do realise you’ve now rendered that ineffectual”.  “Sorry?”  “Fiddling with it and putting it back on your face totally defeats the object.”  Relating the incident to Phil, he said “It’s a gow-gow.”  “A what?”  “It’s what I called a dummy when I was 18 months old.” I recalled the encounter with my walking friend about the use of a scarf ‘making me feel better’.  While there was definitely a comfort element, more evidence emerged that face coverings helped.  Sturgeon said they should be used as part of the lockdown exit strategy for Scotland while Boris still dithered.

After recovering from the trip with a coffee, I worked on my draft novel ‘Felling Oakes’, for the first time in ages.  Intrigued by a character briefly referred to in a fascinating book about Elizabethan England’ⁱ I had sought out a contemporary account.  Available only in digital format on google books, I read the Elizabethan text in miniature on my phone.  As you can imagine, this took some time!  I then embarked on a fictional retelling of his exploits, with frequent digressions into additional source material.  With Corvus Diaries added to my other ongoing writing projects, ‘Felling Oakes’ had gone on the back burner.  Gratifyingly, it looked better than I remembered from the last look a couple of months back.

Due to the unique circumstances we were living under, I completely forgot it was Beltane until late in the day.  Not that anyone would have been dancing naked round fires this year.   Oh wait!  The drug-taking, conspiracy-theory hippies might!

In larger towns, some traditional May Day activities took place (even though the Bank Holiday had been moved for VE Day), as people queued for B&Q.  How come they’d been allowed to resume trading but garden centres hadn’t?  Speculation included the notion that if the latter re-opened, OAPs would congregate in the café.  Is that why some wag suggested that over 50’s be left in lockdown while youngsters were freed to gad about?  Already incensed by the irresponsibility of some of the younger generation, and the ridiculousness of the idea of releasing them from lockdown first as they are less at risk from Covid-19, this took the biscuit.  If we were going to start discriminating on the basis of certain groups being more ‘at risk’, what about ethnic minorities and those living in deprived areas where there was a higher mortality rate? (quelle surprise, by the way).  Rightly, there would be uproar if anyone suggested that.  Yet it seemed okay to spout blatant ageism.  Eff off Poindexter!

The war between China and the USA intensified.  As the Chinese conducted their own investigation into how the pandemic started, they refused to let the WHO be involved.  The Trump claimed they created it in a lab in a plot to stop him being re-elected for a second term of office. Yet more evidence of the delusion of narcissism!  The FBI swerved direct criticism, but said they were investigating if the virus had really been transmitted from animals or there’d been a lab accident.  Methinks they’d watched too many films like ‘Contagion’.

Amid speculation that the target for 100,00 tests a day was unlikely to be met, NHS providers said it was a ‘red herring’, diverting attention from failure on a long-term strategy.  As the government data came in, Matt Cock had apparently ‘smashed it’– yeah, right!  The numbers then dropped back, to a paltry 70,000 by Sunday, as an embarrassed Mike Glove Puppet reported at the daily briefing.  And they failed to meet that target again on subsequent days – ‘nuff said.

Tempted to stay in bed Saturday morning, I dragged myself up on wobbly legs, ignoring the headache. It looked bright at first but still changeable.  Phil remarked “It’s a nice day.”  “If that’s a hint about going for a walk, I’m going nowhere” I declared.  I spent the day on small chores and writing.  Phil ventured to town for some air, relating sightings of flowers and pizzas, including a van outside the leftie music venue.  Normally they host a May Day street party and I wondered if it was a pathetic slimmed-down version– sadly not.  Surprised he’d not got himself one, even though we had pizza for tea the night before, he said though tempted, it was a bit close to dinner time, but subsequently felt cheated by the missed opportunity to stuff extra food in his gob – always being hungry.

Spacewalker Alexei Leonov

The night’s film viewing included the Russian film ‘Spacewalker’ about Alexei Leonov, the first human to ever walk in space and do a selfie.  While an excellent movie, it often struck me as funny that the Russians claim to have put communism behind them yet still liked to brag about the heroic exploits of their Soviet predecessors.

After only a couple hours’ sleep, I was awoken at 3.50 a.m. Sunday by angry birds.  The geese down on the canal honked so loudly I wondered if they were having a massive scrap, while pigeons sat cooing on the exterior sill.  Annoyed, I pointlessly shouted at them to “shut up!”.  Eventually the noise lessened and I sank back into some kind of sleep.

I really needed to do some physical activity.  But after breakfast, it rained and felt really cold, putting paid to the idea of a walk.  Instead, I embarked on DIY in the bathroom.  Mould had developed over the wet winter and desperately needed purging, especially around windows.  It took an hour to locate the stuff I might need.  Kept in the former coal-hole now allegedly serving as a store for tools, I hauled through stacks of random dross, discovering dead vacuum cleaners, weirdly-shaped coffee pots, useless food processor attachments, rotting plastic bags, bags of sand and cement, empty boxes and paint cans.  It was like a crap version of the conveyor belt from The Generation Game!

Exacerbated, I gave up and flopped on the sofa.  Phil went to look and irksomely found the sealant I’d hunted for straight away; hidden in plain sight in a clear carrier bag.   I balanced precariously on the edge of the bath to reach the worst of the mould on the window frames, soon developing achy arms. I managed an hour, stopped for lunch, then forced myself to do another half hour.  Thinking I’d expunged the worst of it, I flopped back on the sofa.  But brushing my teeth before bed, I noticed a nasty clump in an awkward corner – grr!  As I settled down to sleep, I developed a scratchy throat and hoped I hadn’t done too much.

Tits Up

Yoga Bear

Weekend news coverage revealed that Bumbling Boris called his son Wilfred; so another Willy in the family!  He announced an announcement next Sunday on the gradual lifting of lockdown.  A contact tracing app invented by NHSX was due to be piloted on the Isle of Wight, with 18,000 volunteers planned by mid-May.  Phil came up with a couple of easy rouses to render the app useless.  You could tell it you had Covid-19, go to work, and everyone gets sent home.   Or put the app on an old phone and leave it at home.  Or better yet, attach it to a stray cat.  Did anyone need to work in an actual office ever again? I’d been asking this for 20 years.  Working for a national quango, I urged people to use Skype instead of traipsing to London for meetings every week, but to no avail.

Monday, I  awoke from better sleep, and  the throat pain had mercifully got no worse.  In Metro, my entry had been included for consideration for the caption competition: ‘ Fitness routines for pets in lockdown, with Yoga Bear’.  Submitting it quite late Friday, I knew I wouldn’t win (as I had a few months ago – the Amazon vouchers came in handy for Christmas presents).

Sorting laundry, I tripped  on stuff cluttering up the box room.  In an effort to prevent  myself going tits up, I hurt my leg.   Primarily used for Phil’s clothes, I told him the room desperately needed a tidy, and it stank.  He claimed the smell was due to the laundry.  Conducting a ‘sniff test’ I countered this argument and drew his attention to the surfaces encrusted with dust.  As he took the washing down to the machine, it became obvious that his old  back issue had flared up.  I told hm to leave the  chores to me. With the housework and blog postingⁱⁱ, the day flew by.

During the afternoon siesta, I could hardly keep my eyes open when reading and hoped to sleep a bit.  Alas an EHS episode scotched that idea*.

Earlier in the week, museums had requested ideas on ‘life during lockdown’. I suggested Phil pitch his photos and wondered about this journal.   Would there be an audience for it? Might it be a better way of widening readership than pitching to Americans after worthy stories? I then received a message on social media.  Initially wary of spam, I discovered it was from a researcher at Salford University.  She wanted me to participate in a diary project and said Corvus Diaries could be used as they were. I messaged back to register interest and said I’d be in touch.  While not the paid opportunity I was looking for, at least it gave some validity to my efforts.

The London Nightingale hospital went on ‘standby’, while on the Isle of Skye a death in a care home led to immediate contact tracing with talk of an investigation and possible lawsuits. ‘so it begins!’ I thought.  Sturgeon announced a TTI (test, track, isolate) strategy whereas in England it was a TTT (test, track, trace).  I’m not being funny but aren’t those last 2 the same thing?  It’s a bit tits up innit, Mr Cock?  The government had to reveal who sat on SAGE after the hoo ha over Scumbag Cumberbatch, while an anti-sage led by the non- scientist Tony Blair emerged.

I went to bed early, but struggled to sleep.  Annoyed that the Sunday insomnia had migrated to Monday, I noticed it was very bright and peeped between the curtains at a wobbly moon, but a security light blinked on and off like a strobe causing  the real issue.  I sat up for a while, trying to order my thoughts dominated by the frustrations of daily life during the pestilence, before using the meditation tape and finally managing an intermittent sleep.

*A note on EHS – Exploding Head Syndrome – Caused by synapses mis-firing prior to sleep, it involves a sudden loud noise that sounds like an explosion in the brain.  The sounds can mimic a variety of things such as a bomb going off, a bookshelf falling, or a door slamming.

References:

1. The Time Traveller’s Guide to Elizabethan England, Ian Mortimer
2. My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 7 – Fun: Interrupted

Have I got PPE?

Haiga – Showyii

Top geezer Captain Tom Moore opened the Nightingale hospital in Harrogate on Tuesday. The total raised for the NHS stood at £27m, and £29m by Monday 27^th.  He re-set his Challenge to walk 200 laps.  A 6 year old with spina-bifida commenced to emulate the feat.

Unlike the archetypal April, the weather stayed fine and warm all week.  On a sunny afternoon forage to town, I felt slightly nervous as I forgot to take a scarf.  But we encountered no problems on the quiet streets.  I suppressed a guffaw as a young lad walked on the opposite pavement wearing a mask on his chin.  Arguments that face coverings brought disadvantages definitely held some truth.  I for one ended up fiddling with the thing thus risking the transfer of any contaminants to my face rather than shielding it.

While the convenience store met most of our requirements, we investigated a newly opened Asian supermarket to see what they had to offer.  It was not a traditional shop – signs indicated an ‘order and collect’ service only; provisions strew the floor; a woman with a list in one hand searched boxes with the other.  Aware of our hovering by the narrow doorway, she looked up from her task “Hello”.  “Hello”, I returned, “how do we know what’s in stock to put in an order?”.  She hesitated, then said “You could ask us!”  I thought it was bit daft not having a list on the window.  As we walked away, Phil suggested we could have at least got noodles,  but I couldn’t be bothered going back.  On the way home, we spotted the friend of our vulnerable next-door neighbour again, this time sat chatting to someone on a bench in the memorial garden, still heedless of social distancing.

In need of a lie down, I stuffed earplugs in to drown out the noise of them bloody kids, with little effect.  I gave up, feeling decidedly unrefreshed, and caught up on the news.

The weekly ONS statistics revealed  18.5 k deaths so far this year, double the norm, with a quadruple rise in care homes (accounting for 10% of all deaths from Covid-19).

An interesting programme on BBC 4 described the lengths people went to in the olden days in the quest for effective drugs, resulting in lots of analgesics being created, but none as good as morphine.  The next episode told of the search for anti-biotics and anti-virals, with a great deal of self-experimentation.  The Scientists of today could take some lessons from that…

Wednesday morning, I was awoken by a loud crashing noise outside.  Annoyed, I glanced at the clock to find it was much later than I’d thought and forced myself up.  Phil announced he’d made $200 last month on Getty Images.  “That’s a nice bonus” I said.  “It’s not a bons, it’s my wages!”

MPs had returned to Westminster with only 50 allowed in the commons at one time and 120 on Zoom.  Bumbling Boris had shared a cabinet meeting publicly on the go-to video conferencing app of the moment.  I wondered if they knew of the risks of hacking and ‘Zoom Bombing’.

Keir Hardy did quite a good job at his first PMQs.  Parrying Rabid Raabs’ clichés about ‘working flat out’ and ‘straining every sinew’, he countered: “There’s a pattern emerging here. We were slow into lockdown, slow on testing, slow on protective equipment and now slow to take up offers from British firms.”

I would go one step back.  They were slow from the get-go:  All ports and travel in and out of the country should have been shut down straight away, as in New Zealand, then we wouldn’t be in this mess!  With Keir’s law background, he sounded like he was practicing opening remarks for the criminal negligence claims that are likely to be brought against the government when the dust settles.

Raab insisted they were on target with tests, capacity currently standing at 40,000 a day.  But he could not answer why only 18,000 had been done the day before. On PPE, inevitable questions arose about why they wasted time, effort and money trying to source it abroad when 8,000 UK companies had offered to make it.  Matt Cock’s platitudes and more clichés ensued; ‘at peak’; ‘ramping up’), following ‘The Science’…  Change the record!

With new analysis, queries ensued as to why certain groups of the population (particularly ethnic minorities and men) suffered the worst outcomes from Covid-19.  In the absence of the government taking the issue seriously, Labour announced they were conducting their own research, led by Trevor Philips.

Dandelions Close Up

Riveting as the politics was, the allure of afternoon sun proved stronger.  As we headed for a nearby favourite clough, I took my DSLR rather than the compact camera for the first time since lockdown, hoping I’d be able to stop long enough for close-up shots.  The entrance path blocked by workmen and a group of people coming the other way, we hung back then ran through, holding our breath.  Gasping for air amidst the trees and flowers, our shadows lay atop stagnant water of old mill ponds where small fish swam just below the surface.

As a small family vacated the area, we clambered over trunks and rocks to the small waterfall.  With water levels so low, we hopped from rock to rock in the brook to get nearer than ever before to the tinkling cascade which resembled a fairy pond. Ensuring it was safe, we rested on a felled tree fashioned into a bridge, surrounded by nature on all sides.

Boxes dotted on street corners contained random items including child’s toys, rucksacks, kitchen gadgets and bric-a-brac.  Normally, I would have derided the practice as ‘middle class dumping’ but with charity shops shut, it seemed acceptable.  I availed myself of a couple of free books.

That evening, I developed a scratchy throat and although I fell asleep fairly quickly, I woke several times with various aches and pains and odd flitty dreams involving wearing hijabs and going to the beach.  Not surprising with all the talk of PPE, trying different configurations of scarf-wearing when out and about, and planning routes based on maximum people-avoidance.  Muslim women could teach us a thing or two about personal protection and social distancing!

Hopes that we would not need to take these measures forever rose as vaccine trials started, but a warning it could be a year until we knew if they worked, immediately dashed those hopes.  Witless said that social distancing may need to stay in place until Christmas.  Images of pub mayhem at yuletide sprung to mind.

A Dog’s Life

Blue Shadows

Thursday morning; early mist obscured the natural alarm of sunlight.  I slept irksomely late, having  planned to go shopping early.  I performed the morning routines as quickly as possible, including the rigmarole of preparing to go outdoors.  With no bread stall on the market, the conga line for the fish van snaked through the square.  I took a deep breath and resigned myself to a long.  The sun, now strong, shone right in my eyes forcing me to turn round.  I chatted to the woman behind me.  She said she usually shopped on-line, but a sick dog had persuaded her to visit the market for the first time since lockdown to buy it fresh fish.  Several questions came to mind – how do you manage to get on-line groceries delivered every week?  You buy fresh fish for your dog but not for yourself?  Is it a magic dog?  Perhaps luckily, the line moved leaving the questions unanswered.  A woman swathed in voluminous skirts with a massive pram and a gang of  kids stood in everyone’s way, whingeing about queues.  I was sorely tempted to tell her to piss off, but kept schtum. Sooner than I’d dared hope, I reached the counter and engaged in friendly chat with the fishmonger as I stocked up for a couple of weeks.  Inevitably knackered by then, I went straight home, knocked for Phil to open the door and make coffee while I dealt with the purchases and flopped on the sofa.

Temporarily refreshed, I executed an idea for ‘Corvus Bingo’ (that had come to me during PMQ’s) and composed a new Facebook page, with links to the WordPress blog.

After dinner, I developed a scratchy throat and earache, took aspirin and slept reasonably well.  But Friday morning, I felt groggy and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.  My symptoms followed the usual pattern for chronic sinusitis and I resigned myself to a few days in bed.

Phil undertook the weekly supermarket trip.  Hearing him come back, I called down to him several times. He stomped upstairs and said testily, “I’m not a dog!  Been sorting groceries after the stressful shop – full of hippies again”.  I wondered if the hippies had migrated because the snobby organic shop and worthy bakers now only accepted card payments.  If so, the purveyors might want to re-think.   Fetching lunch, I discovered Phil had washed and stored all the shopping (even items that could have been decanted or stayed in bags for a few days; no wonder he felt exhausted).  Similarly shattered from the foray downstairs, I tried hard to rest in the hot afternoon.  But inevitably there was no respite from the noise of people socialising below the bedroom window.

In the news, Sturgeon came up with a draft plan for gradually lifting lockdown in Scotland.  Matt Cock announced workers could apply for coronavirus tests to be done in situ or remotely.  The website locked by lunchtime.  And there were no checks on whether applicants were ‘key workers’ ( since when did that include journos?)  Toddler Trump outdid himself with moronic quote of the day:

“I see the disinfectant, where it knocks it out in one minute. And is there a way we can do something like that by injection inside or almost a cleaning, because you see it gets in the lungs and it does a tremendous number on the lungs.”

So, disinfectant had not outsmarted the virus, unlike the antibiotics!  Raucously derided, Joe Biden tweeted ‘I can’t believe I have to say this but don’t drink bleach’. Trump tweeted he would no longer attend Whitehouse daily briefings as they were a waste of time – a move that lasted 2 days.  Being a narcissist, he just couldn’t cope without the attention, even from the ‘fake press’ as he called them.

Over the weekend, sinusitis persisted.  I tried not to despair at missing the gorgeous weather.  Freshly sun-dried bed sheets, open windows and profusely green trees across the valley helped to bring the outside in. Mainly bedridden, I wrote ‘confined walk 2’ for CP1ⁱ  . Chore-wise. I managed to clean the bathroom.  The layer of grime looked stark in the bright daylight.  In danger of making me sicker, it had to be expunged.  I also did the majority of the cooking, trying not to get irritated at the lack of help in the kitchen, particularly on Saturday night.  In hindsight, I probably took on too much.  Managing to sit in the living room to watch films in the evening, I returned to bed hardly able to keep my eyes open with a headache in 2 places.

Dissing ‘The Science’

Self-Styled Brainiac Brian Cox

Extreme tiredness and mediocre sleep led to added aches and pains Sunday morning.  The kitchen was still a mess from the night before, increasing my anger at the lack of help.  I railed and stomped upstairs to sulk and fume alone.  As the anger subsided, I designed a birthday card for my nephew.  Opening Facebook to post it, I discovered the layout had changed, adding to my frustrations.  Why did they keep doing that?  I stayed in bed until dinner time while Phil went out for some air, returning with sweets to cheer me up.  Thankfully, he had cleaned the kitchen and with leftovers from the night before, it was a lot less hassle making dinner.  I went up soon after, enjoying the quiet in the dark.  But as is often the way on a Sunday night, I tossed and turned.  Hot flushes increased my discomfort.

Monday morning, Phil looked as fuzzy as I felt.  He’d also suffered insomnia, due to suspected migraine. I said it could be hay-fever and suggested he take antihistamine at bedtime.  I made a big effort to do small chores.  As I took the recycling out, I enjoyed a spell of actual sun for the first time in 4 days.  Then, the stupid milkmen backed their float up the street.  With no attempt to vary their routine, they parked in the middle of road, darting between houses, forcing me to back off.  I went back to bed.  Phil showed me an abstract art he made the night before on his ipad.  Fantastic of course, but no wonder he had migraine!  I posted blogs including a haigaⁱⁱ.  In the afternoon, I rested lots, conscious that I had to be up for an Ocado delivery early evening – the only slot I could get.

Over the weekend, I caught a segment of the pointless briefing. UnPretty Patel mouthed platitudes about the number of deaths and the sacrifice of frontline staff – made me want to puke!  Blair’s smug foundation also re-emerged with meaningless charts.  Did they know a graph was not ‘The Science’?  Phil joked “they’ve invented contact tracing.”  On the Andrew Marr, Rabid Raab assured us he’d been “doing his homework”.  Good boy!   Have a gold star!  Perhaps he’d been helped by Scumbag Cumberbatch who, it emerged, had attended meetings of SAGE (the government’s special advisory group for emergencies, rather than a popular accounting software package as I’d thought).  Not being a scientist by any stretch, the leftie press wondered what ‘spin’ he was putting on ‘The Science’.  Popstar turned self-styled Brainiac Brian Cox (and nemesis of my role model Count Arthur Strong) popped up and said there was no such thing as ‘The Science’.  Well, that’s that debunked then!  Spoilt sport!

Bumbling Boris returned from Chequers on Monday morning.  Speaking from the special lectern outside number 10, he offered new, waffling on about the need for a gradual lockdown during ‘this dangerous phase’.  (Latest data showed a fall in the number of deaths but likely inaccurate due to a lag in counting weekend figures).  A Tory crony hailed Boris as the government’s ‘best communicator’.  Most likely true, but not saying much.  Boris obviously wanted to be seen as a Churchill but fell far short of his predecessor’s oratory skills, never mind actions.

Research by King’s College on how people dealt with lockdown made sweeping sexist conclusions that Tory male Brexiteers over 55 were more ‘accepting’ of the rules.  Hmm!  They’d obviously never been stuck in a supermarket aisle behind lolloping Gampires*.  Female Remainers, meanwhile, were ‘suffering’ with higher levels of anxiety, depression, insomnia and unable to block out thoughts about coronavirus.  Reckoning resistors made up around 9% of the population, they said they were largely male, aged 16-24 and voted Labour.   Tis lot were most likely to argue, use drink and drugs and diss social distancing.  And were unsurprisingly more likely to believe in conspiracy theories (half thought the virus was created in a lab and two thirds that most people had it already).

As images emerged of suspected UFO’s over Florida, Jeremey Vine came up with the lamest conspiracy theory ever involving a ‘something event’ that happened in Russia, leading to ‘stuff’.  Never had him down as a drug-taking hippie!  But then again, let’s not forget the Eamon Holmes 5g masts debacle.

*A note on Gampires – an amalgam of  gammon and vampires.   A term invented by Phil, inspired by a picture of Alan Titmarsh, as seen on the popular teatime quiz Pointless.

References:

i.   My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

ii.  My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/

Part 6 – Heroes and Villains

No Kidding!

Goats – No Kidding!

 

Tuesday brought another failed attempt to buy toiletries online.  After problems logging in to Chemist Direct, hardly  finding anything I needed and balking at the delivery charge, I gave up.  I had more success in actual shops in town.   While Phil got cash, I managed to partially satisfy my requirements in Boots.  I was almost cheated out of a fiver change by the miserable cow behind the wobbly safety screen at the till.  I found Phil standing in the road (one of his favourite hobbies with hardly any traffic), chatting to our walking friend who sensibly stayed  on the pavement.  She’d been for a walk on the hills and seen lambs, reminding me I’d not yet spotted any this year.  She laughed at my makeshift PPE aka scarf, saying  “I’m not sure it does anything.  Still, if it makes you feel better…”  I started to reply but she claimed I was inaudible.  Initially thinking she meant with my mouth covered, she quickly added it might have been due to a passing car (there are still some).   Coming home, we veered onto the pub patio to avoid someone coming the other way and peered through the window. Signs advertising the annual duck race and Mother’s Day added pathos to the sight of a deserted bar.  After dealing with purchases, I collapsed on the bed, badly in need of a siesta.  But relaxing proved impossible as people (some returned after a fortnight away from god knows where),  stood chatting in the middle of the street below, accompanied by noisy kids running amok.  The antics continued into the evening.  To my whinging,  Phil said “they’re allowed”.  “Hmm!  I’m not convinced they’re all from the same household”.

Official figures (released weekly) showed that 1 in 10 deaths from Covid-19 took place outside hospitals with several  care homes affected.  The useless government promised PPE to all care homes by the end of week – with more delays and incompetency, this inevitably proved to be more empty words.   Had any of the money or gear pledged to the frontline actually materialised?   Some ‘experts’ warned the number of fatalities in the UK could surpass other European countries.  The notorious but entertaining rogue, Charles Bronson, issued tips for isolation and wrote a poem called ‘coronavirus’.  Funnily enough, his tips did not include GBH, smashing stuff up, or ranting to the press.

The next two days stayed bright and sunny.   Wednesday morning, I felt groggy but forced myself up.  Failing to rouse Phil I went to get the breakfast cereal.  Already feeling irritated, I harrumphed as he tapped at his phone while lying on the bed. “I’m working!” he said.  “It’s not the working room!” I replied testily.  Back downstairs, I discovered a tube of superglue stuck to the coffee table leading to another fit of pique.  When he finally arrived I said “this is not a joke.  Try picking that superglue up”.  Of course he could not.  Eventually he managed to extract it using lighter fluid .  I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the children still running riot on the street below.

Brand New Sheep

Respite came in the form of a sunny afternoon walk. Managing to avoid the interminable children, we went down to the main road, crossed, and headed straight up to the nearest woodland.  We vacated the path a couple of times to make way for other people; first a couple then a straggling family group, with barely audible gratitude.  I hurt my bad ankle on the steep climb to the top but the sight of brand new sheep over the wall took my mind off it – so white, their fleeces shone!

We continued past just-emerging bluebells, a dried up brook, and the equally arid disused quarry.  A pair of women waited for us and I thanked them heartily;  it made a change. Hearing bleating, we walked onto the next farm, hoping to see more lambs. In fact, we discovered a field of goats with offspring. – no kidding!  The next day we spotted goat meat in the butchers and at the weekend, goats featured on a local news bulletin, suggesting they were now all the rage.

Returning via the park, lots of ‘non-essential’ activity took place.  People sat willy-nilly on benches and grass.  Kids skateboarded and cycled.  Teenage girls filmed a video on TikTok.

Getting home too late for a siesta, I retired early that night to soak my sore feet.  The lovely concoction found in a charity shop some months ago, left them feeling gloriously soft and clean.  Who needs expensive spas?

The Phenomenal Captain Tom

Captain Tom Completes his 100th Lap

99 year old dude Captain Tom Moore became a phenomenon over the next few days.  Already a decorated war hero, he became a hero for the NHS, by aiming to walk 100 laps in his garden by his 100^th birthday at the end of April.

The initial target of £1,000 was smashed on the first day, and kept rising.

By Wednesday morning, he’d raised £7m, £10m by bedtime, £12m by Thursday, and £14m by Thursday night, with a Yorks regiment honour guard for his 100^th lap. Not that he intended to stop.  Friday morning, the total stood at £18m and by Sunday night, £26m.  And he was heading for the top spot in the pop charts!

Currently living in Beds, he hailed from Keighley, which explained why he sounded like Count Arthur Strong.  That accent made me chuckle every time I heard it.  A girl in Port Talbot started a campaign to send him birthday cards.  With thousands expected, the kind post-master in Captain Tom’s village collated them (commandeering the local school hall for the purpose).  Calls for a knighthood ensued.

The useless government mentioned giving badges to care workers – I think they meant so they could get free coffee from Starbucks, not war medals!

Mixed Messages

Liberty or Death

Last week, Toddler Trump blamed the WHO for the pandemic. Now, he threw his toys out the pram, suspending funding – a move widely condemned by world leaders, the EU and Bill Gates (the biggest contributor to the Who after the US).

I received a message calling for articles about Covid-19.  I scanned the briefs.  Mainly requesting stories about heroic grassroots initiatives and ‘the magic of dogs’ (the mind boggled), my sarcastic musings did not seem destined for a global audience.

Another 861 deaths from Covid-19 were reported in the UK, 80 in Yorks. As expected, the Cobra meeting resulted in an extension to the Lockdown for another 3 weeks ‘at least’.  With little evidence of the promised ‘ramping up’ of testing and no contact-tracing (there’s an app for that) opposition MP’s asked “where’s the exit strategy?”.  Rabid Raab  wittered on about 5 ‘key tests’ for lifting restrictions.

Preferring the original Pointless (i.e., the popular teatime quiz), I had given up watching the pointless official briefings.  I researched media sources for information on the 5 ‘key tests’.  That go-to of the brainless, The Sun, explain them the most clearly, as follows: 1. A steady and constant fall in the death rate. 2. The NHS continuing to be able to cope. 3. The rate of infection staying at a ‘manageable level’ (unsure how 3 differed from 2). 4. Adequate testing and PPE. 5. No risk of a second peak in cases.  Judging by the government’s track record, it seemed likely lockdown would last forever.  Nads Doris said vaccination was essential before it could end.  A vaccine taskforce aimed to start human trials within weeks.  Perhaps Putin had a point…

A leaked letter to DoH from adult social care managers complained ‘mixed messages’ from the establishment created ‘confusion and additional workload’ amidst fears about funding, shielding vulnerable people, testing and PPE (derided as “shambolic”). While the Muslim Youth Association held prayers, a tribute FROM frontline staff to the public was broadcast after the weekly clap.  Caressa Dick was filmed clapping on a crowded Millennium Bridge, not adhering to social distancing, leading to Brian McFadden calling for London to be totally locked down.  By the way, I heard no clapping from the street below (if I had, I may have been tempted to shout “dirty hypocrites!” through the window).

Friday brought cooler air with a bit of a breeze.  I made a big effort to go shopping early, enjoying the fresher feel to the weather.  The mission proved largely successful although customers were now only allowed 1 bottle of milk each (regardless of the size).  At the till, a man took ages packing his bags before paying, leading to avoidable waiting.  I swallowed my irritation to use the time wisely, sorting my groceries onto the conveyor by category: 1. Needs washing; 2. Can be decanted; 3. Can stay in bag for 3 days.  This worked okay except then I took my gloves off!  I subsequently ditched them on future trips, but still used the scarf.  When my turn eventually came, I chatted with the friendly cashier about the trials of shopping in these strange times. More hassle ensued as my credit card got rejected.  Trying the adjoining till also failed.  Luckily, my debit card did work.   I checked later to find no weird activity on my accounts, proving it was definitely their machines at fault.  The logistics of getting my key out to enter the house defeated me so I knocked on the door for Phil to let me in.   The new packing system successful, I sat down with a long-overdue coffee.  As the skies turned grey (and staying thus for the next 36 hours), I decided not to go out again – the shopping expedition had been exhausting enough!

The following day, Phil volunteered to go for more milk.   He returned to tell me he had “done a swear” :

“I was stood in that stupid ‘Conga Line’ in the aisles like you do now when a couple of rich hippies* came in, treating the place like a museum, not observing the rules.  I said to a woman, ‘some people don’t have an effing clue, do they?’  ‘No, they’re oblivious aren’t they?’  I made a comment to the hippie woman, to which she said ‘I don’t want to stand next to the meat’.  So I said ‘don’t be a c**t sweetheart.’ I bet nobody’s ever said that to her before!”

Meanwhile, I mostly worked on the laptop for the next day and a half, posting ‘confined walks’ on Cool Placesⁱ , and a link to Jeff Beck and Johnny Depp’s version of John Lennon’s ‘Isolation’, which strangely got no ‘likes’ⁱⁱ

Amusement came in the form of antics across the pond.   Trump renewed claims the US would beat the virus in 3 weeks and America would be open for business.  This did not deter idiotic demos against the lockdown.  With slogans such as ‘Give me Covid-19 or give me death’ and ‘People die. So what?’ it was like turkeys voting for Christmas.  Equally screwy president Balls-up of Brazil attended an anti-lockdown rally; coughing!  Claiming he’d tested negative for Covid-19 twice, perhaps the coughing was due to those Amazonian forest fires he’s so fond of.  Both he and Trump plummeted in the popularity ratings while unbelievably, Boris went up!

Impressed that Phil had secured a large tin loaf for Sunday breakfast, the mixed paper and plastic packaging led to logistical issues trying to unwrap it without contamination.  Finally figuring it out, I then found the crust almost impossible to cut, rooted out the lesser-used old-fashioned bread knife and succeeded in making a very thick slice followed by a wafer thin one, which promptly fell to bits. Frustrated, I gave up. With impeccable timing, Phil arrived just as the hard work was all done. I fumed with rage.  Managing to fit the partially eaten loaf into one of our own bags, I admonished myself for yet again getting het up about such a minor thing.  I really needed to get out more!

Six Feet Apart or Six Feet Under

Ruin in the Graveyard

In fine weather, we ventured a little further to walk up a favourite ridge.  On the climb, 2 women with dogs stood aside, assurance us the fur harboured no germs as they had been in isolation for 2 weeks.  Next, it was our turn to wait for a small family crouched on the verge doing selfies.  At the top, quite a few people approached.  We clambered onto a ledge until the coast looked clear.

Continuing on the narrow upper path, a hippie couple* sat on a large flat rock right near it.  They could easily have moved further away, but as they didn’t, we side-stepped as far as possible to the other side.  The man greeted us to which I responded “that’s not 6 feet”.  He said “Don’t worry about it.”  “I do, it’s because of morons like you that the stupid lockdown will last forever.”  As we hurried on past, he shouted  “Stay indoors then! You’re out walking!” “Yes, but when I want a rest, I don’t just plonk down; I move away from the path!”  “Do you remember the Nazis?” to which Phil retorted “No, I’m not old enough.  Are you?”  Tempted to go back and clatter him, I said it wasn’t worth it and anyway, it couldn’t be done at a safe distance!  As an aside, I commented on the latest guidance that walkers were now allowed to sit on a bench for a rest.  What about sitting on a rock?  What about having a snack?  I had packed bananas in my rucksack in case of hunger pangs, deeming them safe to eat without contamination. We reached thankfully less populous woodland where the few others we encountered kindly detoured or paused for us.  We returned home via a hilltop village.  Here, we saw more people (walking, cycling, driving) than we’d seen in one place for 3 weeks.  The small community had rallied round with the post office offering a distribution service for local businesses and the pub doing ‘order and collect’ Sunday lunch.  Managing to keep a safe distance, we rested briefly in the square, overlooking the ruined church.  Normally busy on a sunny Sunday, the graveyard was today left to the birds and those six feet under – I could think of a few villains of the time that ought to join them! (see Cool Places for a more detailed description of the walkⁱ).

Evening television included highlights of the ‘one world together at home’ concert curated by Lady Gaga (who could actually sing beneath all that crap on her records).  Dubbed ‘wi-fi Woodstock’, the event raised about £110m globally. Incredulously, the BBC broadcast featured 3 presenters in a studio!  Late news revealed that blood plasma from Covid-19 recoverees might be a possible cure while a fire on a local moor diverted resources from the frontline.

I retired early again to massage my ankle, achy after the walk.  Although extremely tired, I tossed and turned for an hour.  Heart racing, mind wandering, various relaxation techniques proved ineffectual.  It also seemed  very bright. Peeking through the curtains, Orion dominated the night sky. Incredibly bright stars looked too big to be true. I used the meditation tape and eventually dropped off at 2 o’clock, only to be awoken at 6 by loud clattering outside.  Sticking earplugs in, I got another hour before being annoyingly woken again by noise!  After that, I slept fitfully.

9 a.m. Monday morning was strangely quiet.  I wondered why it was so loud early then almost silent at the traditional rush hour.  Enjoying the peace, I did not want to get up but forced myself to do chores.  The washing line had been ripped down (most likely by a delivery van driving through it) and the trellis had blown off the wall by the strong gusty wind, creating extra work.

Tony Blair appeared on various news programmes, blathering on about the private sector being better than the public sector at getting things done.  Err, no Tony! We just need non-incompetent people in charge!   He also seemed reluctant to criticise the current government, and expounded the view that millennials should be released from lockdown first as they are less at risk.

An article by Prof Powdthawee and Prof Oswald of Warwick, expanded on this preposterous idea.  With no mention of the fact that younger people could still spread the virus (possibly even more than older people as they might be infected but asymptomatic, and many had little concept of ‘social distancing’) I was tempted to draft a stiff letter.  Our internet went off so I couldn’t send it.  Probably just as well, given it was a rant worthy of a Daily Mail reader, or even Charles Bronson!

*A note on hippies – Our town has a higher quota of hippies than most places.  Many of them, including several friends, are lovely people.  However, there are those who are the anti-thesis of the hippie ethos of ‘peace and love’, acting more like spoilt rich kids.  During the lockdown, we have observed that people not observing social distancing rules are largely either younger people (probably thinking they are immune) and these type of self-entitled hippies.  No doubt they  think coronavirus is a  government conspiracy due to taking too many drugs.

References:

i.  My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/

ii. Jeff Beck and Johnny Depp, ‘Isolation’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CCKTECvK6A

iii. My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

 

Haiga – Rich Seamiii

Part 5 – A Moveable Feast

Game of Thrones

Haiga – Clocking It i

Tuesday 7^th April stayed bright and sunny.  I also felt brighter after a full 8 hours sleep, but Phil seemed subdued.  On asking what was wrong, he initially said “nothing”, then re-thought and said “everything”.  He sneezed, indicating hay-fever had kicked in.  I forced a tissue and antihistamines on him.

Although less fatigued, my mind kept going blank and I had to stop and think what I was doing in the middle of writing.  The internet moved at glacial speed, making me quite irate.  Phil eventually managed to sort it out so I could at last post an entry on ‘Cool Places’. ⁱⁱ

Late afternoon, we had a brief spell in the garden.  He planted Christmas tree seeds while I pruned shrubs and put the prettiest cuttings in vases, ready to be adorned with Easter egg ornaments.  A young neighbour  I’d not seen for a few months appeared, back home from university.  She was just finishing her first year at Cambridge when all exams got cancelled due to for lockdown.  She, was devasted of course!  Phil popped to the shop, bought all the groceries on the list, and washed them.  As previously mentioned, he’d become an expert at this type of shopping.  It suited him to buy a few items at a time “like the old days.”

In the evening, we peered out the window at the very bright ‘pink supermoon’ (not pink at all) and made the first of several meals utilising the wild garlic (barley risotto) The garlic-themed dinners continued throughout the week, including fishcakes with garlic sauce, tortilla and chips with garlic mayo, weekend roast with garlic pesto potatoes, and spaghetti pesto.

Bumbling Boris had been put in ICU but not on a ventilator.  A call for an evening ‘clap for Boris’ was apparently not a piss-take.  Talk about toadying!  Rabid Raab took charge during his absence. Elsewhere, reports emerged of Nerola village, Italy being totally isolated with all residents tested and contact-traced.  Valuable research or hideous experiment?   Tigers in NY zoo had tested positive for Covid-19.  Pet owners inevitably fretted.  Clarity on guidance for cats followed: they could go out as long as nobody in the house had symptoms.

Wednesday morning, Gormless Gove began self-isolation as someone in his household allegedly had symptoms.  More likely he was biding his time, waiting for The Boris and The Rabid One to fall so he could take over, like Unpretty Patel.  It was all getting a bit Game of Thrones.  A sculptor from Cornwall made a bust of Chris Witless as ‘he has an interesting face and is very sensible’.  Already hilarious, ‘stay home’ written in crayon on a scrap of paper beneath it had me in stitches!

Confined Walk

Loitering Roadworkers

Phil cast about for a reason to leave the house: “what excuse do I have to go out today?” With no urgent grocery needs, he randomly decided “I need cornflour and a mars bar”

I agreed to a walk in the warm, sunny afternoon.  Down on the main road, an impatient driver beeped us at the zebra, even though the road was clear.

 

Walking along the canal and through the almost-empty park, waiting and weaving was required to avoid dawdlers and cyclists.  Towards the station, dandelion clocks dominated the verge. Men loitered by roadworks on the access road and clambered noisily upon the roof as refurbishment continued.  More lingering ensued trying to get onto the Sustrans path, while a man dithered with his phone for several minutes.  But the hindrances did not mar delight in colourful spring flora. On our return, the towpath looked clear when a pair of joggers almost ran into us under the bridge, causing great annoyance. I noted that in Paris, jogging had been banned between 10-7.  Dog-walking and one-hour strolls were puzzlingly allowed ‘within half a mile of home’.  Safer back in the park, we walked across the pitch to avoid weed smokers, running past yet more loiterers at the lock gates.ⁱⁱ

The evening news told us almost 1.000 people had died in the last 24 hours.  Rabid Raab was very vague about the lockdown review due next Monday,  while experts declared it too early to lift restrictions.  Rishi Rich dished out £750m to charities: Hopefully, it wouldn’t be as hard to access as the emergency loans for small businesses.

First thing Thursday I felt confused and woozy with tummy cramp. Morning chores left me exhausted and achy.  The Ocado delivery I’d booked 2 weeks ago arrived bang on time.  To overcome the logistical problem of washing everything, I left the items not needed for a few days in bags.  An earlier text suggested there would be a high number of missing items. However, most had been substituted by alternatives.  Tinned cherry tomatoes are a thing, it turned out (normal plum tomatoes obviously not good enough for  Waitrose customers!)

In the afternoon, I sourced crucial new ipad leads from the evil Amazon. Buying the toiletries I needed proved impossible.  On ringing Mum, she actually answered, said “I can’t talk now” and promptly put the phone down.  Exacerbated, I sent her an Easter card instead.  Over the weekend, brother 1 took cupcakes to the care home and spoke to mum through the window.  Good to hear she was fine, if frail

Confusion continued following the pointless daily briefing.  Ministers wittered about a Cobra meeting which was in fact a meeting about a meeting due next week to ‘decide how the review will be conducted’.  An extension to the lockdown seemed inevitable.  Some idiot suggested lifting restrictions for young people, seen as at less risk – forgetting they were the ones spreading germs about with no concept of ‘social distancing’!  Police took characteristic glee at the prospect of clamping down over the Easter weekend.  In Northants, they planned to set up roadblocks and search shopping trolleys.  Visions of them confiscating Easter eggs came to mind: “’ello, ‘ello. ‘ello. Is that non-essential items you have purchased?”  The Cambs force patrolled shopping aisles and caravaners were turned around on the A38 going to Cornwall.  Daleks were seen patrolling the streets of North Yorks – at least that suggested a sense of humour.  The government continued to trust they used ‘discretion’; Was that consistent discretion? (sic).

Brandon Whatsit got tied up in knots when asked on Question Time why people could go for a walk in the park or on the beach but could not sit down or sunbathe for 10 minutes.   Prof Openshaw (no relation) said as extra vitamins were essential and the virus didn’t like sun, it was a good thing to do.

Bumbling Boris was now ‘sitting up and chatting’. The next day, he left ICU.  We joked that he would miraculously rise  on Easter Sunday.

Easter Treats

My apple art – Woodland Floor

Good Friday, I woke very early, unable to sleep due to anxiety and ferocious hunger. I tossed and turned until 7.30.  I got the breakfast cereal and made an apple art.  Berries in the granola suggested a woodland floor.  Phil was the real apple artist; my phone photos of his creations had a small but enthusiastic bunch of followers on social media.  Would anyone spot the difference?  Answer: Yes!.  Still, there was no need for him to laugh so raucously at my attempt.

It felt so warm, I donned a pair of  summer jeans  set off for the co-op, suddenly realising I had no jacket on.  Early enough for no queue and not too busy, issues remained with people not understanding what 2 yards was, including staff.  I had to bypass the fruit shelves as a member of staff stocked up the bananas and inevitably I found no hot cross buns.

Hand Finished Chocolate Cake

In lieu of cancelled events, I posted pace egg photos from last year, receiving several likes via the town’s page.   Phil baked  bread while I made a chocolate cake.  The mixture looked very sloppy, took ages to bake and didn’t rise much even though I whisked it for ages (I would never get the hang of that sponge cake lark).

The addition of buttercream frosting and drizzled Bournville improved the presentation somewhat – hand-finished!

 

The evening bulletin informed us there had been almost 1,000 deaths in the UK again.  While less people in London were in ICU, there were more in Yorks.  Scaling on the daft graphs changed as per usual, to make UK figures look less worse compared to the rest of the world.  With 8,000 deaths in the USA, a mass grave had been dug on ‘Heart Island’ in the Bronx.

Reiterating the rules on going out, the announcer proclaimed there was ‘no time limit on outdoor exercise as long as it was close to home’.  So why did I keep hearing it was an hour?  And how many times did we have to be told not to go out over the Easter weekend?

After another crap sleep, I forced myself up on Saturday, to discover my ipad had de-charged to critical overnight even though I turned it off before going to bed – I hoped the Amazon delivery would arrive soon.

Not really inclined to venture out, I worked on the journal and watched telly, avoiding plague news.  However, it would have been worth watching by all accounts.  Taking advantage of the absence of The Bumbler and the Gormless One, UnPretty Patel emerged, insisting she’d been working ‘hard’.  In classically heartless style, she said she was “sorry if people feel there have been failings” (totally side-stepping the issue of NHS staff dying due to a lack of PPE).  Making a complete hash of the numbers, she claimed 300,000; 34; 974,000 tests had been carried out.ⁱⁱⁱ  Talk about thick!  And evil with it – the worst combo of human traits, and typical of bullies.

I got some sun doing a spot of weeding in the garden,.  A container had appeared near the back wall (possibly an evictee from the community garden), handy for sweeping the weeds into.  I overheard The Decorator asking next-door-but-one for phone advice and added my twopenneth about uploading contacts to the cloud and the virtues of Huawei.  This led to comments on the Chinese stealing our data “It’s the Americans you want to worry about”, I said.  Phil emerged, off to stretch his legs. I asked: “if you pass a shop, get me a turnip or swede (no joke!)”  When he returned, he went straight upstairs; I guessed to hide something.  He then announced he had got a turnip; in fact it was a swede.

Easter Desert

Easter Eggs in Chalk

Easter Sunday, Bumbling Boris had indeed risen – it’s a miracle!  He went straight to his country pile while Gormless Gove was seen out jogging – more hypocrisy!

Phil presented me with a co-op chocolate slab, almost identical to one I gave him at Christmas, with the chocolate raisins replaced by small golden eggs. I got him nowt. I’d intended to make him an art but with all the writing, cooking and baking, didn’t get round to it.  The hand-finished chocolate cake would have to suffice.

We had a fix of seasonal holiness from morning telly.  The top archbishop spoke from his kitchen about the impossibility of society going back to normal after the crisis, saying we must continue to value ‘key workers’.  The Pope’s traditional address took place in a weirdly empty basilica save for a few cardinals practicing extreme social distancing.  He also emphasised the need to value people above money and prayed that the homeless and refugees would not be abandoned.

References:

i.   My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

ii. My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/

iii. From The Independent: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/coronavirus-priti-patel-ppe-uk-nhs-update-cases-a9460886.html

Haiga – Life Goes On i

Part 4 – Testing Times

Consistent Confusion

The Long Walk

There was so much going on I started writing in the journal twice a day.  Along with many others, I had concerns about the effects of the crisis and subsequent lockdown on my mental health.  Tremendously difficult not to think about it, I seriously considered requesting beta blockers for the first time ever.

On the day of the biggest jump yet in the death rate, ONS figures suggested a much higher figure than the government who didn’t include those dying at home and in community care.

Police Forces persisted in interpreting emergency powers differently.  In Cheshire, they told people off for walking too slowly.  Phil said it was like Stephen King’s ‘The Long Walk’^I.  Minister’s pleas for consistency sounded hollow – how are the police meant to act consistently when the messages weren’t?

April Fools’ Day past unmarked chez nous; things were ridiculous enough already.  I told Phil we needed bread.  He said  “No problem.  I’ll get tooled up.”  Returning from a strangely quiet shop, he had spotted an acquaintance who seemed to constantly wander about the place.  As he often stayed with our elderly next-door-neighbour, I expressed concern for her.

BBC breakfast featured RAD (Royal Academy of Dance) online ballet.  Pleased to have access to lessons at home, I logged on.  Phil sniggered.  I suggested he join in.  After all, he’s the one who attended classes as a child  (packing it in aged 12 due to a knee injury).  Later, I played guitar for first time in ages while Phil cut his hair.  Bad hair not an issue for him; you can’t go wrong with a buzz cut.

Overnight, 2 teenagers died of Covid-19.  Maybe now young people would stop believing only old people were at risk and stop being dicks!

Arguments intensified over dire levels of testing.  Gormless Gove agreed with ex-health minister Jeremy C**t while he wittered on about a shortage of swabs and reagents (whatever they were)  Another big jump in fatalities coincided with the news that more traffic had appeared on the roads.  Surely more than coincidence?

In the world of business, SMEs were going under fast, complaining the business interruption loans were inaccessible and chaotic.  Apparently the interest rate jumped after the initial government -backed period.  Greedy bankers win again!

Essentials

Bin Sign

Thursday morning, goats took over the centre of Llandudno while the half-onion myth resurfaced.   Nowadays you’re meant to place it in a corner of the room rather than rub it on your chest (see reference to Spanish Flu in Part 3), if you could actually find one right now.   I trusted proven methods to look after my health.  Diagnosed with Vitamin D deficiency, the GP advised me to take high-strength supplements all year round.  The reduced access to sunlight made them even more essential.  Critical supplies arrived just in time. Phil answered the door knock to find the postie had left the package on the doorstep and retreated down the street.

I planned to visit the weekly market early for equally essential fresh veg.

By the time I’d drunk badly needed coffee and donned my own version of PPE, it was lunchtime.  I hoped the crap weather might put people off.

As an elderly neighbour emerged from his car, I bade him stay put while I ran past with a hasty wave and greeting. Further down a milk float obstructed the pedestrian steps.  I hovered until I spotted the owner, who politely stood back for me to proceed.  I remarked  it was a daft place to park.  On reflection, I missed a trick – I should have asked if he was still open for new customers.  Telling Phil about the encounter later on, he counselled me to be nice to people in these tough times.  In theory I agreed, but my gut reactions often got the better of me.  Several domestic builders’ vans also clogged the streets.  Nearer town, roadworks blocked whole routes.  The plethora of men doing works about town verged on preposterous.  Were they essential?

At the market, the morning rain had unfortunately not deterred custom.  With no sign of the fish van or toiletries stall, the hand-crafted bread stall had literally 1 loaf left.  They now requested card-only payments.  I griped at the stupidity of this to be directed to the self-service cash till.   The veg stall was not too busy, but people wove about like directionless bees. I loitered a few yards back until safe to approach.  Phil had offered to meet me and help carry groceries.  I rang him to say “don’t bother”.  Spotting my walking friend across the square, we had a brief safe chat.  Fortunately, everything was still hunky-dory with her.  I told her I felt even more exhausted than usual with everyday life, the trials of shopping being largely to blame.  I considered going to a couple of small shops but had lost the will by then and my bag felt really heavy even though I’d hardly bought anything.  Later on, Phil ventured to the convenience store and bought quite a few of the items I’d failed to find – he was getting rather good at this new type of foraging.

Grant Shats had suggested making it law that we only go shopping once a week.  He obviously had manservants to do his shopping for him, thus had no clue how difficult it was to navigate the shops, let alone come back from one trip with everything you needed.  And how was fresh stuff meant to last a whole 7 days?

Or maybe he had food parcels delivered.  Disabled people whinged about not being listed as officially ‘at high risk’, complaining they were not recognised as ‘special’ so they could have free food.  In a strange turnaround, they now welcomed the label.  Well, they could fill in the Tory government form if they wanted; no doubt containing a ‘DNR’ waiver.

I was cheered while out by a child’s rainbow poster and thank you note on a wheelie bin.  If the crisis had taught society anything, it was that essential or ‘key workers’ nursed and cared for us, provided us with food, cleaned our public buildings  and emptied our bins.  Some of us had known this already.

The Science

Bumbling Boris

In the Evening Matt Cock again blathered about ‘Ramping up’ testing with a new target of 10,000 per day.  What was the point when they couldn’t even manage 1,000 a day?  The Tory campaign chief came up with a new government ad campaign with the cheery message ‘people will die.’  Trump criticised the UK approach, saying their U-turn happened far too late, after he “studied it so hard”.

I had visions of him staring at primary-school level diagrams and graphs, explaining to thickies how the virus works (as presented by the Stupid Deputy Chief Medicine Woman on the pointless daily press briefings).

A new vaccine was muted.  Based on immunity work for SARs-1 and MERS, PittCoVac was a spike protein generating antibodies that destroyed the bug within 2 weeks.  You could be dead by then.  The medicine was delivered via a microneedle array on a patch like Velcro.  I winced at the thought at all the unfortunate mice that had been sacrificed to the cause.  Johnson & Johnson and BAT also joined the ‘race’ to find a vaccine.

A day later, I read about the samba machine from Cambridge diagnostics which could apparently diagnose Covid-19 in under 90 minutes rather than 2 days.   Health bods wittered about antibody tests enabling immunity certificates to be issued.  So far unproven at best if not totally crap, how do we know they could prove immunity?

Surely co-operation would be better than competition under the circumstances.  Methinks all the eggheads blathering about ‘The Science’ need their heads knocking together.

While the Nightingale Hospital based in the Excel centre was opened by Pow via video-link (the first of several planned field hospitals), the BMA said doctors would have to choose who lives and dies due to a shortage of PPE and ventilators.  Obviously machines purportedly developed by Dyson and F1 were Crap.

Eddie Large was the first celebrity casualty of Covid-19, contracted while being treated for a heart condition in hospital.  Meanwhile, Dynamo had been ill for 2 weeks but recovered, despite underlying health conditions.  One of my minor claims to fame is that I booked him to attend a work conference before he was an international star.  Not bad for a lad from Wyke.

At 8.00 p.m., Boris was seen on the doorstep of Number 10, clapping for the NHS.  He looked rather dreadful after 7 days self-isolation.  I prayed he didn’t come out (unless it was a bluff) like his mate Matt Cock who appeared in person on Question Time, with decidedly less hair.  It turned out they were taking advice from one person rather than WHO about the quarantine period.  Or was it yet more evidence of pretending to be ill?  He denied the U-turn yet again and bleated about the logistics of delivering PPE – try amazon you prick!

Ain’t No Sunshine Any More

My Role Model – Count Arthur Strong

Friday morning, we managed an earlier trip to the local supermarket, larking about on the almost deserted main road.  With no queue, the trip was more successful and less stressful, but still knackering.  I was quite friendly with the guy staffing the kiosk.  We chatted about requests to use cards where possible.  I assured him my money was fresh and new from the ATM and bemoaned the ridiculousness of using plastic to buy a loaf of bread – as all the craft hipster places now demanded.  “Come to the co-op!” he said.

On the way home, an inconsiderate tractor sped along, not stopping for us at the zebra.  I put 2 fingers up at the retreating cab and shouted sarcastically “ooh!  Better hurry up!  there’s so much traffic on the road, I might get stuck in a traffic jam!”  Phil laughed “You sound like Count Arthur Strong.”  “Nowt wrong with that, he’s my role model now.”

In light of a forecast for a sunny weekend, hypocrite Matt Cock told us to “stay home”, adding: “This is not a request, it’s an instruction.”   And of course the goalposts moved again; a drive of only 5 minutes for exercise apparently now permissible but renewed calls to shop as infrequently as possible.  Arriva-owned Grand Central and Hull trains both suspended services, leaving  the RMT ‘appalled’.

On civvy street, loo roll shortages led to sewer blockages while fly tipping soared as beauty spots closed.  Bill withered, but not of Covid-19.

During a meaty weekend, I remarked on the irony of access to loads of meat but hardly any veg (the opposite  of WW2).  We joked about subbing vegan products for meat; think of all those air miles saved by growing sheep locally rather than shipping beans halfway round the world.  Laughing one minute, the next, something I said sparked an argument, making me very upset.  We made up soon after, but I had no clue what started it.  Probably just a result of being cooped up together day after day.  I spent most of Saturday on the journal.  I hadn’t meant to but it seemed to have taken over.

The FA had already cancelled all but ‘top flight’ league games for the rest of the season much to the chagrin of teams in the lower leagues.  Now, they cancelled all football indefinitely.  Cold comfort for the likes of Barrow, following 48 years of hurt and the glorious Leeds United. Phil was not pleased, to say the least.  It emerged that rich players still received full wages while clubs disgracefully ‘furloughed’ backroom staff.  Discussions with the PFA suggested they may take a pay cut but no agreement had yet been reached.

The maddest conspiracy theory yet expounded the belief that 5g phone masts emanated the virus, leading to mass burning.  I had received family messages a few times during the week.  on Tuesday, my attempts to contact mum continued to be fruitless while sister 1 reported she had spoken to her briefly.  Brother 1 said that on the bright side, he’d ordered her a load of Tena lady.  Brother 2 pointed out she’d get done for stockpiling.  Thursday night, Mum unbelievably had a hospital consultation via skype, with a view to admission for an x-ray on her wrist and treatment for an infection.  On Sunday morning, I received messages dated Friday.  Mum had been told she could not go to hospital (due to the crisis) to which she said “maybe tomorrow” (clueless as ever).  She was also not prescribed antibiotics; nobody was getting them due to the pandemic, probably to ensure they are effective when they are crucial.

As explanation for the delay in messages arriving, I said maybe someone burnt our phone mast.

A Brief Escape

Haiga – Allotment

Keir Hardie returned to save the Labour Party, promising to ask the government ‘difficult questions’ about their coronavirus strategy.  Jess Philips said it was no surprise that Britain’s second city, with a high proportion of inter-generational households, had seen a spike in cases.  She accused the government of failing to address the issue, adding that while money was being dished out, it highlighted huge gaps. With parliament in recess, MPs were unable to fully quiz ministers.  Perhaps she would benefit from a stint on Richard Blackwood’s massage chair; so relaxing it “makes you drive past the spar.”

The more I stayed in, the more agoraphobic I became, scared of what I might encounter in the outside world.  But the lovely sunshine and the need for vitamin D prompted me to steel my courage to go for a walk and look for wild garlic.  Suitably attired, we set off for the most likely clough, dancing in the street en route, still revelling in the novelty of hardly any traffic.  We came across a few other people, the majority very considerate, but a minority who obviously didn’t know what 2 metres looked like.  One family group in particular prompted a fit of pique.  Nevertheless, we enjoyed some spells totally alone and filled 2 carrier bags very quickly with garlic leaves.  Coming home, Phil nipped to the shop, returning with an unexpectedly decent loaf of bread, while I dealt with the pickings.  Just about managing to sort a hasty snack, I collapsed on the sofa.  Although it had been great to get some proper fresh air and to walk further than the shop for a change, fatigue and back ache defeated me.ⁱⁱ

Matt Cock had muted banning outdoor exercise if we didn’t ‘stick to the rules’ as people had been sunbathing over the weekend (apparently not allowed, even when adhering to social distancing).  Local councils said they might have to close parks.  Ministers  told them not to.  Talk about hypocrisy!  With their second homes and huge gardens, they had no concept whatsoever of what is was like for ordinary people being cooped up.  Myriad future health problems such as depression, vitamin deficiency and diabetes were stacking up.  Not to mention the compounding of social problems including untold children now trapped in abusive homes and a predictably huge rise in domestic abuse.

That night, I tossed and turned unable to sleep as my head churned.  The plague crisis obviously occupied a lot of headspace and made it hard to manage anxiety and worry.  I tried to rationalise my thoughts.  It was highly unlikely I had come into contact with the virus from the foray into the clough in spite of a few idiots.  I was very careful when out and on returning home.  I realised there was no point worrying.  I’d also not worked on the journal on Sunday, so it was possible that contributed to mental disquiet.  As already mentioned, getting stuff from brain to paper was a good coping mechanism.  I resolved to write about it every day from now on, even at the risk of it becoming even more obsessive.  For the first time since the lockdown, I successfully used mindfulness to get to sleep, but hours of shuteye were woefully insufficient.

Monday morning, I suffered severe fatigue.  I actually dropped off briefly during my siesta, feeling slightly refreshed.  Waking to the sound of voices, I looked outside.  Four people occupied the ‘community garden’.  Possibly a family group, I did not recognise them as living nearby and they were definitely not exercising!

Over the weekend, Bumbling Boris was whisked to hospital ‘for tests’ as it emerged his pregnant girlfriend had Covid-19; no surprise after all the idiotic hand-shaking he’d been engaged in.  Lord Bath became the first posh fatality.

For Sunday dinner I tried to make meat-free moussaka. It emerged from the oven a strange grey colour with undercooked spuds and a sloppy filling – improvised isn’t the word!  Monday night, I added a gratin topping to the leftovers (tip: linseeds a good addition) and re-baked it.  Much improved in texture and taste, I declared I’d invented ‘med veg gratin’.   At bedtime, I could barely keep my eyes open and rapidly fell asleep.  Coupled with exhaustion, the return of droning Chris Witless on the pointless daily briefing obviously had a soporific effect.

References:

i               https://stephenking.com/library/bachman_novel/long_walk_the.html

ii              My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/

iii             My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 3 – Gilead

Life Through a Window

Go Home

The sinusitis persisted into a sunny Tuesday and Wednesday, mainly spent in bed.  At least 8 years of being housebound much of the time had put me ahead of the curve for once!   Messages from siblings suggested they were finding space for outdoor exercise.  With talk of second-homers infesting Wales, my sister had seemingly moved on from “it’s ‘just flu.”

To dispel melancholy, we donned t-shirts and flip-flops, ‘like being on holiday’.  From the open bedroom window, I called “Hello!  Is there anybody there?”  Not a soul replied.  I suggested we hang banners out for people across the valley to see.  We disagreed on what they should say, so abandoned the idea.

Mostly limited to sedentary activity, the internet moved at snail’s-pace, with an interminable wait for on-line shopping sites.  Phil helped with a few small chores, putting washing lines up for the first time this year.  As I took the laundry down just before nightfall, I heard a clueless lass wandering about on the street below.  Suspecting it was one of Daft Lad’s acquaintances, I shouted “get in your house!” Gratifyingly, she jumped out of her skin,  but left me shaking (mental note: do not shout at people as it creates adverse effects).  I managed to cook and stay up for a while after dinner, until my back ached and my head drooped.

In parliament the last PMQs before a recess due to the plague, took place.  Bumbling Boris blubbered and waffled through questions, especially on if construction was essential work and on the self-employed.  An announcement the next day caused more consternation and bewilderment – why was it based on profits?  Not all self-employed people are traders. What about zero hours (still overlooked)?  Phi declared “That’s me stuffed. It’s a pile of shit.”

The last Act of the session handed more powers of arrest to the police.  This was enacted with varying degrees of stringency.  Goalposts constantly moved regarding what constituted essential travel and how far people could go for exercise. Derbyshire police delighted in actually having something to do for once and berated people on social media for walking their dogs in the peak District, to hoots of derision.

In the USA, a massive jump of confirmed cases made it the new centre of the pandemic – I knew the joke about Kung Flu would backfire!  The Trump proclaimed he would get it sorted by Easter “because it’s a special day”.  Visions of Jesus rising from the dead to save America sprung to mind.

While resting in the afternoon, I was disturbed by what sounded like a bunch of people shouting.  Looking out the window,  I only saw Clueless Lass still toing-and froing on the street below.  Was it cabin fever?

In the Bread Line

In the Bread Line

Thursday I finally started to feel better if still very tired.  I planned out a few jobs before flagging again, including more laundry while the weather held, and shopping.  Extra bed covers urgently needed a wash after 5 months solid use over the lengthy winter.  I had nightmares of creepy crawlies eating me alive before coronavirus had a chance.  We set out cautiously for the weekly food market, giving others a wide berth, chatting briefly to a couple of people from the other side of the road.  The empty riverside, normally rammed on a sunny day, spoke volumes.  Slightly trickier in the square, we held back to work out which queue was for which stall.  In the bread line, I got slightly perturbed as Phil moved closer to the people in front.  I spoke rather sharply to a woman pushing in.

One at a Time

Seeing nobody at the butchers I left Phil waiting for bread to stand, as instructed by the sign in the window, for the sole customer to buy practically one of everything in the shop.  After what seemed an age, finally my turn came.  The butcher dropped my purchases straight into a carrier bag to minimise contact.  Eschewing a long wait for the fish van, I went for toiletries.

A man hovered irritatingly at the counter. I politely requested he move so I could  pay.  Notably, they had everything I needed with no hike in prices.  Phil caught up with me for another stint of queueing – worth it to stock up on fresh veg.

The whole experience resembled a scene from The Handmaid’s Tale.  Everyone stood in ones and twos, in well-behaved, polite queues.  But the shops were not as cool as Gilead.

No such social distancing measures had yet been implemented at the local convenience store, where we saw an old pub mate.  She was due for an op on Monday, and I wished her good luck (I meant actually being admitted not just with the op itself).  Unable to hug, we blew kisses from afar.  I needed a few items from the chemist.  On entering, my mind went totally blank.  I declared it enough for one day.

Earlier in the week, I had noticed the roads sounded busier and wondered if it was delivery trucks.  But as we returned via the main road, most of the traffic turned out to be builders’ vans.  On reaching our street, our elderly next-door neighbour trundled a walker.  We stayed well back to give her safe space.  As we approached the house, she thanked us, saying she had come to sort some things out and the friends that were staying there would be back in a few days.  As she was being cared for in the next village, I wondered if she was preparing for 12 weeks self-isolation.  I suppressed concerns about people frequently flitting between houses.

We followed what has since become routine protocol for removing outer clothes, putting bags down, washing hands and handling food appropriately, before collapsing on the sofa with a coffee.

In the balmy evening, a plethora of birdsong permeated the sky.  We enjoyed a few minutes outside in the positively spring-like air.  At 8 o’clock, a mass clap for the NHS and other care staff was planned.  I had doubts that anyone would take part here.  But just before 8, a cacophony filled the valley.  I threw the window open to join in.  It later transpired that Bumbling Boris and the Markles had taken part;  I wished I hadn’t.  On  Question Time, Lancet Man berated the government for their response to coronavirus.  The gist being: it’s all very well clapping for the NHS but all this could have been avoided if they’d acted 11 weeks ago, when notified by the Chinese.  The situation had been compounded by ludicrously low levels of testing and the stupid ‘herd immunity’ theory based on the premise that Covid-19 was a ‘mild disease’.  Obviously a load of bunkum, and with a subsequent U-turn, being totally denied.

On the continent, Aachen Cathedral wheeled out Saint Corona, reputedly the patron saint of plagues.  Maybe that explained  why Germany had not been as badly hit as the rest of Europe.

The New Normal

Saint Corona

Overnight frost brought a chillier start to Friday albeit still sunny.  Briefly visiting the garden, I exchanged pleasantries with a passing Irish neighbour, remarking on the cleaner atmosphere.  I then chanced a forage in the local co-op.  I prevaricated about taking the shortest route involving very narrow steps, saw a young girl about to come up, then she saw me and scarpered.  Normally this would cause paranoia but these were strange times.  Emerging from the alley, I stopped to check the coast was clear.  With only a few pedestrians, including the Irish neighbour crossing the zebra a few yards ahead, I had a clear view of the main road.  I could already see a queue in the supermarket carpark (they had now introduced ‘social distancing’ measures).   I used the main gateway to join the back of the queue.  Irish neighbour took the pedestrian entrance straight up to the shop door to be told to get in line.  He ended up behind me, short of the requisite distance.  “That’s not 2 yards, get back!” I commanded Canute-style.  The queue moved slowly and he impatiently gave up waiting.

Two lads sauntered in, saw the queue and swore: “you must be effing joking!”  Deciding to use the ATM, they asked:  “Is this queue for the cash machine?”  “No, it’s for the shop.” I told them, adding: “get used to it.  It’s the new normal.”  Then the pace picked up.

What a stressful experience!  It was all very well implementing social distancing measures, but what about the guy at the door?  It wasn’t wide enough to leave a 2 metre gap.  No one inside the store ensured measures were adhered to.  I rapidly retreated several times when people got too close; the staff were worse if anything.  And what was the point of requesting card payments if staff touched you when they handed your receipt over?  Why weren’t they at least wearing gloves?  As for the shopping, it was so exhausting I gave up without checking I’d got the essentials.  Back home I realised I’d forgotten some important stuff and became het up about what I should and shouldn’t touch; all the food having been handled by someone else.

During further brief stints outside, I saw other neighbours on the row.  I asked Next-door-but-one “Are you alright in there?”  “Yes thanks, a bit stir-crazy but fine.”  I didn’t mention that the previous evening I had spotted her partner sporting PJs and disposable gloves put rubbish in the dustbin then throw the gloves in.  I alarmingly thought they might have the lurgy but obviously they had adopted extreme caution.

The Decorator had been “Up Tops. Away from it all.”  We discussed the shopping fiasco and the ridiculous stockpiling of loo roll.  Still, things never change.   During the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918 it was Vicks which made sense, while the practice of rubbing half an onion on your chest did not.  According to a book I am reading, basics were hard to come by due to panic buying in World War 2 while chocolate was plentiful.  Random shortages included toothbrushesⁱ.  More recently in the 1970’s, we had the butter mountain and the great sugar shortage  – my mum had a sufficient stash in the cellar for a lifetime of cake-baking.  It beggars belief that it was considered such an essential item.

In the midst of food foraging expeditions, Ocado said that they’d come up with a way to ensure ‘smart customers’ could get delivery slots.  Notification of my window for the priority queue arrived Friday evening as we were about to have dinner.  They said I had all day which of course by that time meant only a few hours, causing much annoyance.  Still, there was a big difference between waiting 4 hours and one minute.  The green van motif sped along.  The First delivery time available was 2 weeks away.  Not bad going by all accounts but I had trouble predicting fresh food requirements that far ahead.   I stocked up on tins but failed to replenish the freezer.  Unable to think anymore, I developed a headache and had to stop.  Technically, I could add to my order later, but how long would that take?  Would I be able to get back on the website?   And why, with a polite request to only order what we would normally, were there still 3 pages of suggested additional purchases to click through before check out?

Meanwhile in Downing Street,  Bumbling Boris and Mat Cock both tested positive for Covid-19.   Dom Cumberbatch was seen running away; no doubt to his bunker ‘away from the herd.’  A few days later, it transpired he also had the plague – perhaps he’ll die there.  More questions arose.  Why were they only planning a quarantine of 7 days?  Did they really have the virus or was it a publicity stunt?   Chris Witless, The Medicine Chief also showed symptoms.  Proof (if any were needed) that he was not a real doctor.

On top of interminable political manoeuvrings, further conspiracy theories emerged.  Putin had originally alleged the pandemic was a British conspiracy (so the UK could claim to find a vaccine and save the world), while playing it down in Russia, thus being accused of conspiracy himself.  It transpired the teenage activist Greta Thunberg and her dad had contracted Covid-19 while travelling Europe by train.  Had it all been a ploy to reduce carbon emissions?  If so, Greta, it worked!

Reviewing the week’s events, we agreed it was increasingly  hard to keep up.  Not surprising as everyone – the government, NHS, service providers, supermarkets, deliverers, banks – worked ‘tirelessly’ ‘relentlessly’ ‘night and day.’  Give us a break!

I rued starting this journal as it took up blocks of time.  But I felt compelled to document the worst pandemic since WWI.  From governments and scientists, to ordinary people, none of us knew how it would pan out, how long it would last, if it would end, and when it did,  how many humans would be left, if it would return or what the world would be like when the dust settled.   Writing about it was also a coping mechanism.

Stay Home

Haiga – Spring Unfurls

Over the weekend, I took a breather from ‘plague news’ although I heard mention of Bumbling Boris sending us all letters telling us what to do (at a cost of £5.8 million!)  Two UK citizen turned 112, a woman and a man.  He was also the oldest in the world and claimed to never have seen anything like coronavirus.  He would have been 10 in 1918 so how come he didn’t remember Spanish Flu?

In the deathly silent night, I tried to take my mind off the pervading issue of the day using various relaxation techniques.  Sadly, ‘mindfulness’ had little effect on the meanderings of my brain.

As the clocks sprung forward for BST, flakes of sleet fell from the sky.  We had considered going into the local woods to find wild garlic.  But deterred by the turn in the weather, we stayed indoors – baking, cooking and watching the goggle box – as instructed by public broadcasting channels.

Thanks to the butchers, Sunday fry-ups were still a thing.  I had just finished cutting the bread when, with impeccable timing, Phil arrived in the kitchen.  “Which bread is that?”  he asked.  “Yours, you idiot”.  “Oh. It looks proper doesn’t it?”  “Well actually, I chucked yours away and got some from the bread shop before you came down.”  In fact. It was exceedingly good bread.  The crusty top created a wonderful cake-like texture (tip: put a tray of water at the bottom of the oven).  He said he’d been channelling Michel Roux since his sad demise.

A message from my brother informed us that mum had a fall and been taken to A&E.  She was back in the care home by teatime and I assumed all was well (at least until the next crisis).

Traipsing to the co-op again for the missing items, I waited for a neighbour on the steps.  We discussed the weirdness and queues.  She confessed to not having seen the TV adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale and aptly enough, planned to catch up during lockdown.  The queue now occupied the public pavement but was much shorter.  Ducking and dodging instore suggested the wait should have been longer.  Stressed-out and exhausted, I plodded home.  Clueless Lass loitered ahead of me, gabbing on her phone.  Her being an acquaintance of Daft Lad, I kept well back.  Passing Daft Lad’s house, he stood on the threshold having a fag.  I said: “Would you move back inside your house please.  I’ve noticed you’ve been socialising a lot.” (adding under my breath:  “You have been warned!” – not that I intended to be Block Fuhrer, tempting though it was). He nodded but only took one step back.  I raced up the steps to minimise breathing in his vicinity.  I added a stage to the back-home protocol, to make dealing with packaging less hazardous.

Monday was grey and cold.  I felt marginally brighter while Phil seemed narky but claimed he was fine.  On posting Part 2 of ‘Corvus Diaries’, I actually got a ‘like’!

In the news, PHE released different figures on numbers being tested for the virus, a lot less than the government said, in spite of ceaselessly banging on about ‘ramping it up’ (I was shocked to learn blood donors were not tested).  Testing became a big issue in the coming week, along with PPE, as a quarter of doctors self-isolated in case they were infected.   Thousands answered a call over the weekend for volunteers while 20,000 ex-NHS staff planned a return to help out.  Bumbling Boris said “There is such a thing as society.”  Was he trying to be funny?

Airlines did deals to repatriate Brits stuck abroad, but in typical greedy capitalist style, EasyJet grounded all flights; due to travel restrictions, not to save lives.  Even greedier Mick Astley had originally refused to shut his shops and hiked up prices on his tawdry sports goods.  After Laura Ashley went bust last week, Bright House and Carluccio’s followed, ‘furloughing’ employees (jargon for unpaid leave, with the tab to picked up by the tax payer).

Across the pond, Trump retracted his idiotic claim that the virus would be gone by Easter.  Maybe Jesus had a word in his ear.

On a more positive note, footballers and Amir Khan donated hotels for NHS staff use.  What nice young men!  And more flowers appeared in the garden.

References:

i.  Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler

ii. My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 2 – Don’t Panic!

Moorland Expanse, from ‘Our Back Yard’

Tuesday 17^th March, St Patricks Day was effectively cancelled, as was the publication of Valley Life magazineⁱⁱ.  I had only recently submitted my regular column for the next issue due at the start of April (‘Our Back Yard’, based on my ‘Cool Places blog’)ⁱ.  Not only did the proprietor have underlying health issues but 80% of the magazine distributors were aged over 70.

I nipped out to the local supermarket for a top-up shop, fully expecting to return empty-handed.  Predictably, shelves designated for bog roll, pasta, spuds and onions were bare.  But fresh fruit, salad stuff and other veg was plentiful. As others stared in disbelief at the gaps, I couldn’t help chuckling at the stupidity of it.  Luckily, I got what I needed, plus an emergency bag of flour.  At the till, the queue moved very slowly and people were irritatingly not adhering to ‘social distancing’.  I pointedly stood back.  On the way out, I shared news with a neighbour (again, from a safe distance) about comings and goings on the street.  As I struggled home, I rued buying the hefty bag of flour.

The latest evening update from Bumbling Boris created more consternation and confusion.  Government ‘advice’ was still not mandatory.  Organisations continued to take matters into their own hands.  All theatres shut, so our trip to Blackpool had been timely.  The self-isolation advice remained mind-boggling, varying between 7 and 14 days.   While the NHS declared all non-essential surgery would be postponed, Rishi Rich  announced more money for companies – loans and grants rather than hand-outs – and he still failed to address the SSP issue for the self-employed and those on zero hours contracts.  I suggested it would be better to give everyone actual money so they could at least afford food, fuel and rent rather than propping up businesses that are probably doomed anyway.

On Wednesday, Mum finally rang me, obsessed with the same gripes as ever, despite the new health threat.   I contacted friends and family to see how they were faring.  My two brothers, nephews and cousins all replied positively.  One of my sisters works for HMRC and is technically semi-retired, but was working ‘flat out’ (from home) to try and implement the measures announced almost daily.  My other sister irked me somewhat, declaring the pandemic “just flu’ made worse by panic”.  An extended family member told me her daughter’s boss was supplying her with 40 bog rolls.  She justified this by saying the daughter would be working at home for 3 months.   While I saw the funny side, I was more exacerbated than amused.  Why did she need to stockpile the stuff upfront for the whole duration?  No wonder there’s a shortage!

Of the friends who replied, one was on holiday in The Gambia, confident the country was virus-free but accepting her flight back might be affected.  I arranged to meet my walking friend for a foraging trip the next day.  An elderly couple who live up the street were already self-isolating.  They had developed a routine involving a short drive ‘up tops’ for some fresh air which sounded sensible (while they still could).  Vague ponderings on a conspiracy theory less rational.

Trying to update an Ocado order, I was initially placed in a queue expected to last over 2 hours, then I received a message saying I could no longer edit my order.  Later that day, unable to cope with demand, the Ocado website shut down until the weekend for structural changes.  A few days later, I logged on out of interest to discover the queue had grown to 4 hours!  This situation persisted throughout the week.

Phil needed to go into town.  I asked him to look for broccoli or cauli.  He returned with both, but reported that in contrast to the day before, there was hardly any fresh veg apart from spuds!  It was hard to keep track of the erratic panic buying and shortages.

The daily plague bulletin mentioned measures to ease food shortages.  Supermarkets were hiring more delivery drivers and creating specific time- slots for the elderly and vulnerable while pubs and restaurants were converting to take-aways.  A flurry of e-mails from suppliers landed in my in-box (some of which I’d not used for decades), confirming the message.  Schools were closing on Friday, more due to teachers self-isolating than for public safety reasons, with kids of NHS staff and undefined ‘key workers’ still able to attend.  Further event cancellations included Glastonbury and the Eurovision Song Contest.  At least the UK wouldn’t get ‘nil points’. With all the songs watchable online, how about a remote contest with DIY scoring?ⁱⁱⁱ

Filming stopped on loads of TV dramas including Eastenders.  Schedules were due to fill up with advice and entertainment for people stuck at home including sofa choirs, Sunday mass, exercise for the elderly, and educational stuff for kids being ‘home schooled’.   I look forward to a return of old-fashioned schools programmes, especially those featuring factory production lines.

That night, I developed a scratchy throat and earache.  Certain it was sinusitis again and not Coronavirus, I became annoyed at the relapse.  I made a big effort to get up, bathed and dressed but accepted I needed to stay away from people and would not be able to go  foraging with my friend.  I texted her, joking she could come round and talk to me from 2 yards away.  I had just got downstairs when the Ocado van pulled up.  Phil answered the door then stood back as instructed while the driver left the stuff  on the threshold.

We had just sat down for coffee when there was a second knock on the door.  I answered to find my friend sitting on the bench opposite the house.  I offered her a cuppa and she asked “Is it safe?”.  Taking extreme care, I ensured it was. I sat on the doorstep so we could chat safely .  Inevitably, we compared notes on how the plague was affecting us.  As she is a care worker, I was particularly interested in how they were coping: so far, so good.

Spring Madness

Garden Primrose

During the short stint outdoors, I  spotted a few signs of imminent spring in the form of a few flowers, including a primrose in our tiny garden and a neon green caterpillar.  An arty German couple stopped a foot away.  I told them I was unwell and to move.  They nodded but didn’t budge and asked after the next-door neighbour.  I told them she was not there and thankfully they shifted at last.  My friend was off to the weekly market.  I said if she found bog roll, to get me some.  She thought I was jesting.  I wasn’t!  Although pleasant outside, I felt cold from sitting on the step.  I managed to stay up and keep occupied throughout the day (apart from the customary siesta) but this proved a mistake.  I had a terrible night as noisy, brightly-lit  roadworks mitigated against sleep, even with earplugs.

Friday I felt achy and ill.  I resigned myself to bedrest. We still needed a few supplies for the weekend and Phil volunteered to go shopping.  This turned into quite a mission – “It’s carnage out there!” – although he did procure under-the-counter bog roll (only available to favoured customers!)  He came across Ground Zero who warily kept his distance, people wearing face-masks (while sceptical about their efficacy he wondered where on earth they were getting the proper air-filtration gear when even the NHS didn’t have them.  They’d probably stolen them from health workers) and a man covered in blood.  Apparently from Leeds, he had come here to live outside.  So it begins, I thought; people moving from big conurbations to the relative safety of rural areas, bringing the disease with them.

The latest pronouncements included public places (such as bars, restaurants and gyms) being told to close from Saturday morning, with take-ways still allowed.  Rishi Rich said the Government would pay 80% of the wages of those whose jobs were at risk, up to a limit of £2,500 a month.   All very well, but if you can’t go out drinking and don’t need to commute, why on earth do you need that much money?  I repeat: why don’t they just give everyone enough to cover housing, food and other essential costs?  Is it because that would be a harder system to administrate, putting the onus on the state rather than employers (who have to apply for it)?  On a positive note, folk might buy more crap on the internet so it’s possibly a good time to re-visit that e-bay lark.  Amazon will no doubt do very well out of this; they had better cough up on the taxes.  My HMRC sister will be even busier!

Overnight reports demonstrated the stupidity and selfishness of some people, with a mad dash for a Friday night out before pubs and clubs shut the next day.

I continued to feel unwell for several days, confining me largely to the bedroom.  Weekend telly provided some amusement.  Celebrity Chefs got with the zeitgeist.  Saturday kitchen featured tinned sardine bolognese.  Jamie Oliver was starting a cooking programme Monday teatime to show us how to make stuff out of flour.  Football Focus was even funnier than usual.  We had often japed it should be called ‘No Football Focus’.  Now, it was ‘Really No football Focus”, consisting of 4 kids sat in an attic, not practicing social distancing, chatting shit, showing old clips of Wayne Rooney.

Loitering Kids by Phil Openshaw

While I stayed in bed, Phil went out on another egg hunt.  With typical resourcefulness, he got some after literally queueing for half an hour at the butchers.  Town was even weirder.  The usually busy square was occupied only by an elderly couple staring at nothing, a woman wearing 10 coats reading a novel, and kids loitering on the empty market stalls.  With queues outside pubs selling take-outs, the die-hards sat on the wall outside the local drinking tinnies.

I said “they will probably ban that soon” (in line with guidance for congregations of more than 5 people).

He replied “I’d like to see them try; the estates will go mental.”

“The army is on stand-by.”

“Yes because the police have no resources!”

Herd Stupidity

Haiga – ‘Herd Stupidity’

Sunday dawned bright and sunny again.  And so quiet!  For several minutes, I bathed in the magical luxury of the eerie silence until a solitary car driving past on the main road broke the spell.  I almost didn’t put the telly on but was driven by the desire to glean the latest nuggets on Corvid-19.  The local politics show mentioned ‘emergency powers for Yorkshire’ – surely not just us?

While making the traditional Sunday breakfast, I managed to drop my egg on the floor, yolk-side down  Distressed, I considered eating it but decided it was too dicey.  A good job Phil had found more the day before!  I took some recycling out and enjoyed a few minutes of fresh air, albeit with a chilly wind.  Then I had to go back to bed.  Phil went out for a short walk, leaving me envious and self-pitying.  I longed to be outdoors, especially now the air had become distinctly fresher due to a lack of traffic – a message from mother earth!

When he got back, he updated me on the weirdness.  While most people were being sensible, many seemed still in denial.  Neighbours from the next terrace confidently predicted the crisis would be over in 4 weeks so they could go on their planned holiday.  A daft lad on the street below treated the whole thing as a jolly, inviting mates round to smoke weed. A stark contrast emerged between our block of mainly older people acting sensibly and cautiously, and younger people down the road being irresponsible and selfish.

This pattern was replicated across the nation.  Hordes flocked to country parks and the seaside at the start of spring.  With schools out and glorious weather, perhaps this was inevitable but the sheer volume of cars clogging roads, families on over-crowded beaches, second-homers infesting the countryside, no doubt thinking this was their last chance, it made you wonder why none of them stopped to think how recklessly thoughtless they were. It was equally inevitable that the government would introduce tougher measures to contain the outbreak.

Officials repeated that those who died from Covid-19 were elderly and/or had ‘underlying health issues’.  I suspected this wasn’t true, but a strategy to avoid panic.  Unfortunately, the message backfired as younger people thought they are immune.  The part of the message about protecting others in the community especially the more vulnerable, and the NHS which will collapse if thousands of people get infected at the same time, failed to hit home.  I considered hanging a sign out the window: ‘ it’s not about you, you dickheads!’

Sunny weather lasted well into the new week, although the nights were often frosty.  Traffic increased and I tried to work out from the sound if it was delivery trucks.  I felt slightly better first thing but this didn’t last long.  Most days,  I managed a few small chores then needed to go back to bed and worked on my writing.  Unable to go out taking photos, I used an image of Blackpool North Shore for my weekly haiga: ‘Herd Stupidity’, summing up the lunacy of the first weekend of spring.

Lockdown!

Triangular Food

Out of bread again, Phil nipped to the local bakers.  In another predictable move, they were no longer accepting cash.  He  made up a platter of  bread, cheese and ham cut into  triangles– this had become a theme over the past few days: ‘this week, we have been mainly eating triangles’

In the Daily Plague Bulletin, Bumbling Boris made a statement following a Cobra meeting.  As expected, he announced an almost total lockdown. Everyone can now only leave the house for 4 specific reasons: shopping for essentials like food; to do exercise once a day, alone or with others in the household; for medical/care reasons; to go to work but only if essential.  Many Questions arose such as:

• If we are meant to get stuff delivered, why are all the take-away chains shutting? And if there’s a 4 week wait for a supermarket delivery, what are we meant to eat in the meantime?
• If we are supposed to go out shopping as infrequently as possible, why are some shops only letting us buy one bottle of milk at a time and what about fresh veg?
• How long can people be out of the house exercising? All morning? All day? Can they do a marathon?
• What if you have a dog that needs walking more than once a day?
• Does medical care include taking your pet to the vets?
• What counts as essential work? Why is construction still going on?
• How are they going to enforce the fines and disperse gatherings with hardly any police?

Over the forthcoming days, answers were given to some of these questions. In the now-familiar ‘making it up as they go along’ way.

References:

i.   Valley Life magazine: http://valleylifemagazine.co.uk/

ii. My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/

iii. Eurovision: https://eurovisionworld.com/eurovision/songs-videos

iv.  My Haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com

Part 1 – Crisis? What Crisis?

 

Contagious Complacency

Crows Wheeling About with Glee

Apparently starting late 2019, news of the Coronavirus (SARs version 2) emerged in January 2020.  The first recorded cases were linked to a fish market in Wuhan, China.   DNA analysis showed that the virus was part bat and part pangolin and had jumped species again to humans.  It thus appears that the virus hits mammals but not other types of animal such as reptiles and birds.  Although the name ‘Covid’ could be confused with the crow family, it has nothing to do with them.  In fact, they have been wheeling about in the fresh air with positive glee since this all flared up!

Typically, the Chinese authorities took drastic action to limit the spread.  It transpired that my nephew was working at a school in Wuhan at the time and managed to get out a week before the lockdown. He now wants to go back there, considering it safer than the UK.  Indeed, street parties were recently held in Wuhan in celebration of no new cases being recorded.

The Trump and his lackeys might find hilarity in referring to the virus as ‘Kung Flu’ but they’ll be laughing on the other sides of their faces as the virus continues its relentless spread across Europe (now the epicentre of contagion) and America.

Throughout January and into February, we heard of people from countries outside China testing positive for coronavirus including several deaths.  As these people were largely gammons on cruise ships, we remained complacent.  While some clamoured for Brits stuck abroad to be repatriated, others pleaded: “leave them! We don’t want them!”  The clamourers won.  Strange isolation units sprung up in the North of England, even though the infected returnees landed in the South East.  Well, you wouldn’t want them near that London would you?

But the crisis still seemed largely faraway and non-threatening.

York City Walls

Towards the end of the month, we had a day trip to York.  Exactly a week later, the first cases of Coronavirus contracted within England were diagnosed in the city.  The patients being a Chinese student staying in a hotel with his visiting mum, it was highly unlikely that among the few fellow sightseers we came across walking the walls, we would have come across them.

Nevertheless, I started to feel rather jittery about travelling the country.  We were planning a weekend in Blackpool for Phil’s birthday at the start of March.  I went ahead booking a hotel and theatre tickets, but held off on the advance train tickets.  Not only was the virus spreading, but the rail franchise was transferring to public ownership.  A welcome move, but official communiques contained conflicting information about whether this would mean changes to services.

Concerns about the plague took a backseat during February, with atrocious weather coming to the fore.  Storms Ciara and Desmond battered the country.  The Calder Valley suffered flooding for the third time in eight years during the first storm.  I couldn’t bear to see the yet-again submerged town centre.  In contrast to previous devastation, the majority of businesses recovered within days.  I felt sorry for residents who were badly affected, especially as many had little control over taking measures to guard against the inevitable.  I had less sympathy for business-owners who had apparently done nothing to make them more resilient following the Boxing Day flood of 2015.

Waterlogged Landscape

I checked social media to ensure friends were okay.  Relieved to see that by and large they were, I came across several posts by proprietors asking for volunteers to put sandbags in front of their premises.  With ample warning of the storm, what excuse did they have for not taking responsibility for their own businesses?  Furthermore, some idiotically included staff’s personal numbers.

The River Calder didn’t officially reach the same levels as 2015, but was high enough for discomfort.  As the flash flood of 2012 had coincided with the start of my current issues, it was no surprise the situation significantly affected my mental health. I experienced a deepening of my depression and a sense of hopelessness.

When the second storm threatened, the army arrived on Saturday to help with sand-bagging.  Tempted to go and watch them, it felt like voyeurism.  As I was unable to contribute to the volunteer efforts, mentally or physically, I stayed in to bake as a distraction from mounting stress and anxiety levels.

As it turned out, the valley escaped the ravages of Storm Dennis, while other areas of the UK were badly hit including Wales.

On Sunday, I ventured out to find lots of businesses shut, including some not hit during Storm Ciara.  I saw  a friend who lives at ‘ground zero’.  He was on a futile mission to check water levels upstream.  We discussed the ineffectualness of flood measures downstream.  I pointed out that they were not yet finished and the residents of that village did like to whinge.  Apparently the excessive rain was all the fault of the Environment Agency.  Do folks really think they actually control the climate?

He said the Chinese had volunteered to come and finish the defences. “If they can build a hospital in a week, think how quickly a mere wall could be built!”

“Yes,” I replied, “it’s called Communism.  I can really see the gammons going for that one!”

Another sennight of rain followed threatening flood for the third weekend in a row.  As I set forth on errands, it looked like the river had overspilt during the overnight incessant rain, with surface water on the roads and blocked drains.   Phil and I ventured on a short stroll up a nearby clough, to see the changes wrought by the relentless onslaught of water, on an the already waterlogged landscape.  Returning home, we met a riverside friend.  She had survived the wettest February ever unscathed, ensconced in an armchair with her laptop (“Thank god!”) on the uppermost storey.  Her cellar is designed to flood but the door only just held back the deluge.  It might be time for her to invest in proper floodgates.

Attention turned back to Covid-19 at the end of the month.  Phil seemed to think it was all a big joke, making fun of the hand-washing advice. I said there was no harm in following good hygiene, which we should anyway.  He has now come round somewhat albeit with complaints about his skin drying out.  I reminded him that he has several of those metrosexual moisturising products nowadays (I should know.  I bought most of them!)

Gimme Space!

Cleveleys, Fylde Coast

During Phil’s birthday weekend at the start of March, we had a great but tiring time in Blackpool. On a trip to Cleveleys, we snapped up a pair of official Picasso plates for £2 each in one of the many charity shops. An evening at Blackpool Grand Theatre for the Count Arthur Strong – is there anybody out there?  Show was very silly but hilarious, from the vicious attacks on Brian Cox to bizarre popstar impersonations.

I kept myself to myself on public transport, wary of contact with strangers.  The train was packed both ways, putting paid to ‘social distancing’.   On the outward journey, we sat opposite an elderly couple with a small dog.  Undeterred by the cramped conditions, they proceeded to feed the mut treats and made themselves a brew.  Fully commandeering the shared table, they poured hot water from a Thermos onto teabags in plastic cups.  The man then proceeded to root around in one of several bags for milk.  The woman got fed up waiting and drank hers black.  Phil inevitably petted the dog and let it lick him to my great consternation.  When we arrived in Blackpool, I insisted he apply hand gel forthwith.  The journey back was, if anything, worse.  A young man sat next to me, alarmingly coughing without covering his mouth.

Throughout the weekend, I stayed cautious, especially in enclosed public places.  I suspected there were more cases in the North West than in our part of the world and I questioned the wisdom of travelling to the area rather than staying in the relative safety of our small town surrounded by hills.  On the other hand, the Fylde Coast is blessed with wide-open spaces and as we are not fans of rowdy bars and pubs, the hostelries and restaurants we visited allowed us to minimise contact with others.  Mind you, there were still a couple of scary moments when people coughed and spluttered too close for comfort.

I made use of hand-washing facilities at every opportunity.  Some places had put up signs to remind patrons to wash their hands.  Admirable, I hear you say.  It  would be if they supplied hot water to comply with the wise advice.  Phil again accused me of being obsessive and again I repeated there was no harm in being careful.

There had been some reports of panic buying, unfathomably focused on bog roll and pasta.  I saw the first instance of this in Blackpool.  A  queue formed outside B&M waiting for it to open at 11.00 a.m. on the Sunday.

Inevitably exhausted when we got home, I managed a normal Monday, attending my regular adult ballet class at the local gym in spite of yet more foul weather.  Only three students turned up.  Maybe the others were already in quarantine?  The next morning I felt ill and was bedridden for four days.  Phil also felt unwell. Not surprisingly, we wondered if we had contracted Covid-19, but with no sign of a dry cough or fever, were pretty sure we hadn’t.  In my case at least, the symptoms indicated the usual sinusitis, probably triggered by the weekend away, lack of sleep and increased fatigue.  Weirdly, a part of me wanted to catch the virus and get it over with.  This plan would only work if it didn’t kill me and I developed immunity from further attacks.  There was no guarantee so far against either of those eventualities.

It occurred to me that if our ailments dragged on or recurred, we would be ahead of the curve in self-isolating seeing as the WHO had now declared a global pandemic and the UK government were expected to tell everyone with a cold or similar illness go into quarantine within the next fortnight.  Cue more panic-buying and loo roll shortages!

Spend, Spend, Spend

Being housebound, I had plenty of time to catch up on politics.  Rishy Rich presented his budget on 11^th March; hastily re-written in light of the coronavirus threat.  Amongst a host of measures suggesting the Tories had now not only found a ‘magic money tree’, but a veritable forest, mind-boggling amounts of cash were thrown at public services, businesses, and infrastructure projects.  On Covid-19, they announced that everyone in work who was forced to self-isolate would be able to claim Statutory Sick Pay (SSP) from day one.  Straight away, this begged questions about those on zero hours contacts and working in the gig economy.  As for the self-employed, he wittered on about Universal Credit (UC) making us wonder if had he got confused between SSP and UC.   Apparently not.

Announcements towards the end of the week did nothing to clarify the issue.  Bumbling Boris and the Medicine Chief announced the nation had reached the ’delay’ phase of trying to control the contagion.  Not quite as predicted, the government asked people with a cough or fever to stay home for a week.  They stopped short of banning public events and flying about which seemed grossly irresponsible.  In their opinion, the spread of the virus in the UK was 4 weeks behind Italy when other experts reckoned it was more like 2 weeks.  In light of the fact that Italy had gone into total lockdown, the mixed messages were worrying.

Their foolhardy plan consisted of keeping things going and planning for most of the population to get the virus thus promoting ‘herd immunity’.  It was blatantly obvious the strategy was more about propping up capitalism than protecting people’s lives.  It was later alleged that it was the brainchild of Dom Cumberbatch (of course, Number 10 denied this).  Other fans of right-wing eugenics such as Katie Hopkins, also seemed to agree we should just let the old and vulnerable die.

Over the weekend, and without a clear steer from the authorities, football clubs and airlines took matters into their own hands with all matches and most flights cancelled.

Closer to home, the first case in our borough emerged.  This caused further consternation.  Due to a ridiculous lack of testing, we knew confirmed cases were a tiny portion of the actual numbers.  How close was it really?

Chaos Reigns!

Haiga – Social Distancing

I had felt okay for a couple of days and made a cautious trip to town for essentials.  It was extremely quiet in the main, although I had to detour round a large family group ambling at snail’s pace down the pedestrian street, to maintain the recommended safe space.   A balloon confection had been abandoned outside the town hall,  inspiring that week’s haiga: ‘Social Distancing’.ⁱ

Following a terrible night, severe fatigue recurred on Monday.  I also developed a headache and became more debilitated as the day wore on.  The customary siesta refreshed me not one jot.  A series of annoyances ensued and I was on the verge of tears.  I knew this was more due to the tiredness than the breaking of a pot.  I hoped I would perk up enough with caffeine to  go to ballet class.  But in the midst of Bumbling Boris’ new daily ‘Plague Broadcast’, I  became very sleepy and could hardly keep my eyes open up.  Citizens were advised to avoid non-essential social contact and travel, and to work at home whenever possible.

Notably, they stopped short of forcing pubs to shut.  Phil remarked that this was crap because they wouldn’t be able to claim on ‘loss of business’ insurance.  As this was to come later, a cynic might say measures were being introduced bit by bit to get us all acclimatised for when emergency powers came in.

The missive had no influence on my decision to not attend ballet.  In fact, it crossed my mind to go while I still could, before everything got banned.  But I just couldn’t do it.  Phil said he also felt very tired and again we wondered if we had a mild version of coronavirus – how would we know for certain?

The message from our glorious leader (sic) included a plea that if anyone showed symptoms the whole household self-isolate for 14 days.  More confusing abounded.  At first the isolation period was 14 days, then  was 7 and now it was 14 again.  More than ever, we concluded they were fumbling from one announcement to the next, with no long-term thinking, not even to the end of the week.

The next day, I felt much brighter after a better sleep.   I tried to contact Mum.  Despite her mobile being to hand, she rarely answers calls.  After another failed attempt, I rang her care home.  The carer I spoke to assured me Mum was fine and confirmed the home was closed to visitors due to the ‘corvus virus’ .  Thank you Jenny for inspiring the title of this journal!

Reference:

i My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com